The Time in Between: A Novel

by Maria Duenas

  “So who supports him? Just Franco?”

  “And his blessed wife, which is no small matter. Though we’ll see how long the affection lasts.”

  Félix was a lifesaver in the lead-up to the event. From the moment I told him the news, and with a theatrical gesture he pretended to gnaw on the five fingers on his hand to demonstrate his envy, there wasn’t a night when he didn’t come by my house to bring me some interesting piece of information about the party, stray bits that he’d picked up here and there in his constant exploratory zeal. We didn’t spend those evenings in the living room as we used to do: I had so much work that our nighttime meetings had been transferred temporarily to the workroom. This small move didn’t seem to matter to him, however: he loved observing the threads, the fabrics, and all that was hidden behind the stitching. And he always had some idea to bring to the design I was working on. Sometimes he was right; many other times, however, he suggested the most outrageous nonsense.

  “This velvet marvel of a gown you said you’re making for the wife of the president of the High Court? Make a hole in the ass, see if anyone is actually looking at her. What a waste of material, look how ugly the old whore is,” he said, running his fingers along the pieces of fabric assembled on a mannequin.

  “Don’t touch,” I warned him severely, concentrated on my backstitching without even looking at him.

  “Sorry, it’s just that the fabric’s got such a beautiful sheen.”

  “That’s exactly why: be careful or you’ll leave fingerprints all over it. Come on, let’s get down to business, Félix—tell me, what have you learned today?”

  In those days Serrano Suñer’s visit was the talk of Tetouan. In the shops, at the tobacconist’s and the hairdresser’s, in any doctor’s office, in cafés and in groups gathered on the sidewalks, at market stalls and on the way out of Mass, no one talked of anything else. I, however, had so much work that I barely had a minute free to step out onto the street—that was what my good neighbor was for.

  “No one is going to miss out on him, the best people in local society are going to gather there for their rendezvous with the In-law-ísimo: the caliph and his great retinue, the grand vizier and the Makhzen, his entire government. All the senior authorities from the Spanish administration, soldiers laden with decorations, attorneys and magistrates, representatives from Morocco’s political parties and the Jewish community, the whole diplomatic corps, the directors of the banks, posh civil servants, powerful businessmen, doctors, every Spaniard, Arab, and Jew of high social standing, and—naturally—the odd parvenu like you, you shameless little thing, slipping in through the back door with your limping reporter on your arm.”

  Rosalinda had warned me, though, that the sophistication and glamour of the event would be kept to a minimum: Beigbeder meant to welcome his guest with every honor, but he hadn’t forgotten that we were in a time of war. So there wouldn’t be showy displays, or dancing, or any music other than the caliph’s band. All the same, in spite of the austerity, it was going to be the most dazzling reception the High Commission had organized in a long while, which was why the capital of the Protectorate was in agitated preparation.

  Félix also instructed me on some matters of protocol. I never found out where he’d learned them, since his social background was nil and his circle of friends almost as paltry as my own. His life was bounded by his routine work at the General Supplies Office, his mother and her wretchedness, his sporadic nighttime excursions to squalid dives, and the recollection of occasional trips to Tangiers before the war—that was all. He hadn’t so much as set foot in Spain his whole life. But he loved cinema and knew all the American movies shot by shot, in addition to being a voracious reader of foreign magazines, a shameless observer, and the most incorrigible busybody. And cunning as a fox, so that when he went to one source or other it was easy for him to furnish himself with the tools he needed to train me and transform me into an elegant guest with no trace whatsoever of my lack of pedigree.

  Some of his pieces of advice were so obvious they were unnecessary. In the time I’d spent with the undesirable Ramiro, I’d known and observed people from the most varied social strata and origins. Together we’d been to a thousand parties and dozens of assorted establishments and good restaurants, in Tangiers as well as Madrid; as a result I had assimilated a host of little routines to get by confidently at social gatherings. Just the same, Félix decided to begin my instruction with the most basic information.

  “Don’t speak with your mouth full, don’t make noise while you’re eating, and don’t wipe your mouth on your sleeve, or put your fork all the way into your mouth, or gulp down all your wine at once, or hold up your glass whimpering to the waiter to fill it back up for you. Use ‘please’ and ‘thank you very much’ where appropriate, but only murmured, not overly effusively. And as you know, say a simple ‘pleased to meet you’ each time you’re introduced to someone, none of that ‘the pleasure is all mine’ or vulgarities of that sort. If people talk to you about things you don’t know about or don’t understand, give them one of your dazzling smiles and keep nice and quiet, just nodding from time to time. And when you have no choice but to speak, remember to keep your lies to an absolute minimum, or you’ll find yourself caught in them: it’s one thing having told just a few teeny little fibs to promote yourself as a haut couturier, but quite another putting yourself in the lion’s mouth strutting around in front of people with enough insight or enough class to spot your lies the moment they’re out of your mouth. If anything astonishes you or delights you, just say ‘that’s good’ or ‘most impressive’ or a similar adjective; at no point should you demonstrate your enthusiasm with excessive arm waving, slapping your thigh, or using phrases such as ‘well I never!’ or ‘you don’t say!’ If someone makes a comment you find funny, don’t laugh wildly, showing your wisdom teeth, or double over holding your belly. Just smile, blink, and avoid making any comment at all. And don’t give your opinion when you aren’t asked for it or say indiscreet things like ‘And who might you be, my good man?’ or ‘Don’t tell me that fat lady is your wife?’ ”

  “But I know all this, Félix dear,” I said, laughing. “I may be only a simple dressmaker, but I wasn’t brought up in a cave. Tell me some things that are a little more interesting, please.”

  “Very well, then, darling, as you wish; I was only trying to be useful, in case any little detail eluded you. Down to the serious stuff, then.”

  And so over the course of several nights, Félix sketched out for me the profiles of the most distinguished, and one by one I went about memorizing their names, positions, and responsibilities, and on several occasions their faces, too, thanks to the array of newspapers, magazines, photographs, and catalogs that he brought over. In this way I learned where they lived, what they did with their time, how wealthy they were, and where they were ranked in the local hierarchy. To tell the truth, these things really didn’t interest me all that much, but Marcus Logan was counting on my being able to identify the relevant people, and to do that I needed to prepare myself.

  “I would imagine that given where your companion is from, the two of you will probably be mostly with the foreigners,” he said. “And I suppose, apart from the locals, there will be a few others coming over from Tangiers; the In-law-ísimo has no plans to go there on his tour, so, as you know, if Mohammed won’t go to the mountain . . .”

  That gave me some comfort: mixed up with a group of expatriates I’d never seen before and whom I’d probably never see again in my life, I’d feel much safer than surrounded by locals I might run into daily on a street corner. Félix informed me, too, of the order of protocol, how the guests would be greeted and the sequence of events, one step at a time. I listened to him, memorizing the details while sewing more intensely than I’d ever sewed before.

  Until at last the big day arrived. Over the course of the morning the final orders left the workshop in Jamila’s arms; at noon all the work had been delivered and there was calm at
last. I imagined that the other guests would already be finishing their lunches now, getting ready to take a rest in the dark of their bedrooms with their shutters closed or waiting their turn at Justo and Miguel’s haute coiffure salon. I envied them: with barely a moment to get a bite to eat, I still had to devote my siesta time to sewing my outfit. When I set to work, it was a quarter to three. The reception was due to start at eight, and Marcus Logan had sent me a message notifying me that he would be coming to collect me at half past seven. I still had a world of things to do and less than five hours ahead to do them all.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ___________

  When I’d finished the ironing I looked at my watch. Six twenty. The garment was ready; all I needed to do now was make myself presentable.

  I sank into the bath and let my mind go blank. The nerves would be there when the event drew closer, but for now I deserved a rest: a rest in hot water and soap bubbles. I felt my tired body relax, felt my fingers, weary of sewing, loosen up from their stiffness and my neck muscles unclench. I started to doze off; the world seemed to be melting into the porcelain of the bathtub. I couldn’t remember such a pleasurable moment in months, but the lovely feeling didn’t last long: it was interrupted by the bathroom door being thrown wide open without so much as a knock.

  “But what are you thinking of, girl?” yelled Candelaria. “It’s after six thirty and you’re still soaking like a chickpea; honey, you won’t have enough time! When were you thinking about getting yourself together?”

  The Matutera had brought along what she considered to be her vital emergency kit: her dear friend Remedios the hairdresser and Angelita, a woman who lived next door to the boardinghouse and had a gift for manicure. A short while before I’d sent Jamila to La Luneta to buy some hairpins; she’d run into Candelaria on the way, which was how the Matutera learned that I was much more concerned about my clients’ clothes than my own and barely had a minute free to get myself ready.

  “Hurry up, then, girl; get yourself out of the tub, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us and we’re desperately short on time.”

  I allowed myself to be taken over; it would have been impossible to fight against that whirlwind. And of course I was deeply grateful for her help: there was only three-quarters of an hour left before Marcus Logan would arrive and I still looked (as the Matutera put it) like a scrub brush. The moment I managed to get a towel wrapped around my body, the work began.

  Angelita the neighbor focused on my hands, rubbing them with oil, removing rough areas, and filing my nails. Candelaria’s dear Remedios, meanwhile, took charge of my hair. Knowing I wouldn’t have much time in the evening, I’d washed it that morning; what I needed now was a decent hairdo. Candelaria served as assistant to them both, holding out tweezers and scissors, curlers and pieces of cotton, while—never once stopping talking—she filled us in on the latest information about Serrano Suñer that was circulating around Tetouan. He’d arrived two days earlier and had been escorted by Beigbeder around all the relevant places and met all the relevant personalities in North Africa: from Ksar el Kabir to Chefchaouen and then to Dar Riffien, from the caliph to the grand vizier. I hadn’t seen Rosalinda since the previous week; yet the news had been circulating from mouth to mouth.

  “They say they had a Moorish meal yesterday in Ketama, surrounded by pine trees, sitting on rugs on the ground. They say the In-law-ísimo almost had conniptions when he saw everyone eating with their fingers; the man had no idea how to bring couscous to his mouth without dropping half of it along the way . . .”

  “And the high commissioner was utterly thrilled, playing the great host and smoking one cigar after another,” added a voice from the doorway. It was Félix, naturally.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked, surprised. His afternoon walk with his mother was sacred, even more so on a day like today when the whole city was out on the street. Tipping his thumb against his mouth, he indicated that Doña Encarna was at home, obligingly drunk earlier than usual.

  “And since you’re going to be abandoning me tonight for some upstart journalist, at least I didn’t want to miss out on the preparations. Anything I can help with, ladies?”

  “Aren’t you the one who paints divinely?” Candelaria asked him suddenly. Each knew about the other, but this was the first time they’d met.

  “Like Murillo himself.”

  “Then how about seeing if you can do this girl’s eyes?” she said, holding out a makeup case that she’d got hold of from heaven knows where.

  Félix had never made anyone up in his life, but he didn’t flinch from the task. Quite the contrary: he accepted the Matutera’s order as though it were a gift, and having consulted the photographs in a couple of issues of Vanity Fair in search of inspiration, he became engrossed in my face as though it were a canvas.

  At seven fifteen I was still wrapped in my towel with my arms stretched out, while Candelaria and her neighbor blew the nail polish dry. At seven twenty Félix finished going over my eyebrows with his thumbs. At twenty-five past, Remedios put the final pin in my hair, and just a few seconds later Jamila ran like a maniac in from the balcony, announcing at the top of her lungs that my date had just appeared at the end of the street.

  “And now, just a couple of little things left,” my business partner announced.

  “It’s all perfect, Candelaria: there’s no time for anything else,” I said, going off half naked to fetch my outfit.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I heard her warning behind me.

  “I really can’t stop, Candelaria, honestly . . . ,” I insisted anxiously.

  “Shut up and look, I said,” she commanded, grabbing me by the arm halfway down the corridor. Then she held out a small flat packet wrapped in crinkled paper.

  I tore off the wrapping, realizing I couldn’t refuse any longer; I knew there was no way I was going to win this one.

  “Candelaria, I don’t believe it!” I said, unfolding a pair of silk stockings. “How did you get hold of these? You told me there weren’t any to be had for months.”

  “Just stop talking once and for all and open this one now,” she said, stopping my flow of gratitude and handing me another packet.

  In the coarse wrapping paper I found a beautiful object, shell shaped and golden edged.

  “It’s a compact,” she explained proudly. “For you to powder your nose all up, to show you’re no less than any of the grand important ladies you’re going to be rubbing shoulders with.”

  “It’s lovely,” I whispered, stroking the surface. Then I opened it: inside there was a tablet of compacted powder, a small mirror, and a white cotton powder puff. “Thank you very much, Candelaria. You needn’t have bothered, you’ve already done so much for me . . .”

  I couldn’t say any more for two reasons: I was about to cry, and at just that moment the doorbell sounded. The noise of the bell made me react, there was no time to get sentimental.

  “Jamila, open it—quick!” I commanded. “Félix, bring me the slip that’s on the bed; Candelaria, help me with the stockings, if I rush I’ll end up making a run in them. Remedios, you get the shoes; Angelita, draw the curtain in the hallway. Let’s go, everyone into the workroom so he won’t hear us.”

  I’d finally used the raw silk to sew myself a two-piece outfit with broad lapels, a fitted waist, and évasée skirt. Since I didn’t have any jewels, the only accessory I wore was a tobacco-colored cloth flower at my shoulder, which matched the vertiginously heeled shoes that a cobbler in the Moorish quarter had fashioned for me. Remedios had succeeded in transforming my hair into an elegant loose bun that gracefully emphasized Félix’s improvised makeup job. Despite my friend’s inexperience, the result was superb: he’d filled my eyes with joy, and lips with voluptuousness, and found a glow in my tired face.

  Between all of them, they managed to dress me, put my shoes on, and retouch my hair and my rouge. I didn’t even have time to look at myself in the mirror; as soon as I knew tha
t I was ready I went out into the hallway and rushed along it on the tips of my shoes. Arriving at the foyer I stopped and, feigning an easy pace, walked into the living room. Marcus Logan had his back to me, watching the street through one of the balcony windows. He turned when he heard my footsteps on the floor tiles.

  Nine days had passed since our previous meeting, and over that time the traces of the aches and pains with which the journalist had arrived seemed to have diminished. He was waiting for me with his left hand in the pocket of a dark suit, and he no longer wore a sling. On his face there were now barely more than a few traces of what used to be bloody wounds, and his skin had absorbed the Moroccan sun until it was a tanned color that contrasted starkly with the spotless white of his shirt. He stood without any apparent effort, his shoulders firm, his back straight. He smiled on seeing me, and this time it didn’t seem hard for him to stretch his lips in both directions.

  “The In-law-ísimo isn’t going to want to go back to Burgos after seeing you tonight,” was how he greeted me.

  I tried to give a reply that was equally clever but was distracted by a voice behind me.

  “Very nice, girl,” pronounced Félix in a hoarse whisper from his hiding place in the foyer.

  I stifled a smile and just said, “Shall we go?”

  He didn’t get a chance to reply, for just as he was about to do so an overwhelming presence invaded the room.