The Time in Between: A Novel

by Maria Duenas

I followed a soldier along the corridor in the opposite direction. We crossed the main hallway again and went into a new corridor, this one silent and dimly lit. We turned several times, first left, then right, then left again. More or less.

  “Would madam like me to wait?” he asked when we’d arrived.

  “Thank you, there’s no need, I’ll find my own way.”

  I wasn’t too sure of that, but the idea of having a sentry waiting for me made me feel extremely uncomfortable, so once I’d dispatched my escort I did what I needed to do, smoothed out my dress, retouched my hair, and readied myself to go back out. But I didn’t have the heart, and faced with returning to reality my strength failed me. So I decided to treat myself to a few moments of solitude. I opened the window, and through it came the African night with its jasmine scent. I sat down on the windowsill and contemplated the shadow of the palms and heard the distant sound of the conversations in the front garden. I distracted myself without actually doing anything, savoring the tranquillity and allowing my worries to dissipate. After a time, however, in some remote corner of my brain, I heard a call. Tick tock, time to go back. I sighed, got up, and closed the window. I had to return to the world. To mix with those souls with whom I had so little in common, return to the side of that foreigner who had dragged me to this ridiculous party and asked me the most extravagant of favors. For the last time I looked at myself in the mirror, switched off the light, and went out.

  I made my way along the dark corridor, turning a corner, then another. I thought I knew where I was going, then found myself confronting a double door I didn’t think I’d seen before. Opening it, I found a dark, empty room. I’d gone wrong somewhere, no doubt, so I changed my route. Another corridor, now turning left, I seemed to recall—but I was wrong again and had gone into a less regal area of the house, without the gleaming wood paneling or oil-painted generals on the walls; probably I was going into some service area. Just relax, I told myself not very convincingly. A vision of the night with the guns, with me in a haik and lost in the alleys of the medina, suddenly fluttered over me. I shook it off, focused, and immediately changed direction again. And straightaway found myself where I’d started, next to the bathroom. So, a false alarm—I wasn’t lost anymore. I thought back to the moment I’d arrived with the soldier and got my bearings. All perfectly clear, problem solved, I thought, making my way toward the exit. And everything did indeed start looking familiar again. A display of antique firearms, framed photographs, hanging flags. I’d seen it all minutes earlier and recognized it all. Even the voices I heard just around the corner that I was about to turn—the same ones I’d heard in the garden in the ridiculous scene with the powder compact.

  “We’ll be more comfortable here, my dear Serrano; we’ll be able to talk more calmly here. It’s the room where Colonel Beigbeder usually receives us,” said a man with a thick German accent.

  “Perfect,” was his interlocutor’s only reply.

  I stopped still, not breathing. Serrano Suñer and at least one German were just a few feet away, approaching along a stretch of corridor at right angles with the one I was walking along. When they or I came around the corner, we’d be face-to-face. My legs trembled at the very thought. In fact, I had nothing to hide; I had no reason to be afraid of the meeting. Except that I didn’t have the strength to strike yet another pretend pose, to allow me to pass once again for an airheaded fool and give some pathetic explanation about a broken tank and puddles of water in order to justify my solitary wanderings through the corridors of the High Commission in the middle of the night. It took me less than a second to weigh my options. I didn’t have time to retrace my steps, and I wanted at all costs to avoid meeting them face-to-face, which meant I couldn’t go backward or forward. That being the case, my only option was sideways, through a closed door. Without giving it a second thought, I opened it and went in.

  The room was unlit, but traces of moonlight were coming in through the windows. I leaned my shoulder on the door, waiting for Serrano and his companions to pass by the room and disappear so that I could go out and continue on my way. The garden with its festival lights, the hum of the conversations, and the imperturbable solidity of Marcus Logan suddenly seemed like a paradise to me, but I was afraid this wasn’t the moment for me to reach it. I breathed heavily, with each gulp of air trying to expel a bit of the anxiety from my body. I focused my eyes on my sanctuary, and among the shadows I could make out chairs, armchairs and a glass-fronted bookcase against the wall. There were other pieces of furniture, too, but I didn’t stop to identify them because at that moment something else caught my attention. Close by, behind the door.

  “Here we are,” announced the German voice, accompanied by the sound of the door handle releasing the latch.

  I moved away with rapid strides and reached a side wall of the room as the door began to open.

  “Where might the switch be?” I heard someone say as I slipped behind a sofa. The moment my body touched the floor, the light came on.

  “Well then, here we are. Do sit down, my friend, please.”

  I was lying facedown, my left cheek on the cold of the floor tiles, controlling my breathing and with my eyes opened wide, filled with terror. At first not daring to breathe in, to swallow, or to move so much as an eyelash. Like a marble statue, like someone shot but not yet dead.

  The German seemed to be acting as the host and to be addressing just one interlocutor—I knew this because I only heard two voices, and because under the sofa, from my unexpected hiding place and looking between the legs of the furniture, I could only make out two pairs of feet.

  “Is the high commissioner aware that we’re here?” asked Serrano.

  “He’s busy looking after the guests; we can talk to him later if you wish,” replied the German vaguely.

  I heard them sit: their bodies settled, the springs creaked. The Spaniard sat in an armchair; I saw the cuffs of his dark trousers, their creases well ironed, his black socks around his thin ankles lost in a pair of conscientiously shined shoes. The German positioned himself opposite him, on the right-hand end of the sofa behind which I was hiding. His legs were thicker and his footwear less refined. If I’d reached out I could almost have tickled him.

  They talked for a long while: I couldn’t have said how long exactly, but it was enough that my neck was aching horribly, enough that I was desperate to scratch an itch, struggling to stop myself from shouting, crying, running out of the room. I heard the sound of a lighter and the room filled with cigarette smoke. From floor level I saw Serrano’s legs cross and uncross countless times; the German, meanwhile, barely moved. I tried to tame my fear, find the least uncomfortable position, and beg heaven that none of my limbs would demand any unexpected movement.

  My field of vision was very small, and my capacity for movement nil. I had access to nothing but what was floating in the air and coming in my ear: to what they were talking about. So I concentrated on the thread of conversation; since I’d been unable to obtain any interesting information during the powder-compact encounter, I thought that this might be of interest to Marcus Logan. Or at least that it would keep me distracted and prevent my mind from becoming so unsettled that I’d end up losing my grip on reality.

  I heard them talk about installations and transmissions, about ships and aircraft, quantities of gold, German marks, pesetas, bank accounts. Signatures and terms of payment, supplies; balances of power, numbers of companies, ports and loyalties. I learned that the German was Johannes Bernhardt, that Serrano was using Franco as an excuse to put more pressure on him and avoid acceding to certain conditions. And even though I was missing information that would have allowed me to understand the whole situation, I could tell that the two men were both concerned that the matter they were discussing should turn out well.

  And it did. At last they reached an agreement, then they got up and sealed their agreement with a handshake that I heard but couldn’t see. But I could see their feet moving toward the door, the German
allowing the guest to walk ahead of him, acting the host again. Before leaving, Bernhardt threw out one last question.

  “Will you talk to Colonel Beigbeder about this, or would you rather I told him about it myself?”

  Serrano didn’t reply right away. First I heard him light a cigarette. His umpteenth one.

  “Do you really think it’s absolutely essential to do that?” he asked after breathing out his first drag of smoke.

  “The installations will be located in the Spanish Protectorate, so I suppose he ought to know something about it.”

  “Leave it to me, then. El Caudillo will inform him directly. And as to the terms of the agreement, best not to let any details out. That can be kept between us,” he added as the German turned out the lights.

  I let a few minutes go by, until I calculated that they were out of the building. Then I got up cautiously. All that remained of their presence was the thick smell of tobacco and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. And yet I was incapable of lowering my guard. I straightened my skirt and jacket and approached the door stealthily on tiptoes. I brought my hand slowly to the doorknob, as though afraid that touching it would give me a whip-sharp pain, afraid to go out into the corridor. I didn’t get as far as moving the latch, however; my fingers were just about to touch the handle when I noticed that someone else was moving it from the other side. Automatically I threw myself back and pressed myself against the wall as though trying to sink into it. The door burst open almost hitting me in the face, and a second later the light came on. I couldn’t see who’d come in, but I could hear his voice cursing through his teeth.

  “So where the hell has the bastard left the damned cigarette case then . . . ”

  Even without being able to see him I could tell it was just a simple soldier reluctantly carrying out an order, retrieving an object left behind by Serrano or Bernhardt. I didn’t know at which of them the soldier was aiming his epithet. Darkness and silence returned in seconds, but I wasn’t able to recover enough courage to venture out into the corridor. For the second time in my life, my salvation came by jumping out of a window.

  I returned to the garden and to my surprise found Marcus Logan in animated conversation with Beigbeder. I tried to retreat, but I was too late: he’d already seen me and called me over to join them. I approached, trying not to let them see how nervous I was: after what had just happened, a private audience with the high commissioner was the last thing I needed.

  “So you’re my Rosalinda’s pretty dressmaker friend, then,” he said, greeting me with a smile.

  He had a cigar in his hand and put the other arm over my shoulders familiarly.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you at last, my dear. It’s such a shame our Rosalinda is indisposed and hasn’t been able to join us.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  With the hand that was holding the cigar he traced circles over his belly.

  “Intestinal troubles. She gets them when she’s anxious, and these past days we’ve been so busy attending to our guest that my poor little thing has barely had a moment’s peace.”

  He gestured for me and Marcus to bring our heads closer and dropped the tone of his voice with apparent complicity.

  “Thank God the brother-in-law’s going tomorrow; I don’t think I could bear him a day longer.”

  He finished off this confidence with a booming laugh and we imitated him.

  “Well, friends, I really ought to go,” he said, looking at his watch. “Much as I love your company, duty calls: now it’s time for the anthems, the speeches, and all that paraphernalia, undoubtedly the most boring part. Go see Rosalinda whenever you can, Sira—she’d appreciate the visit. And you, too, Logan, stop by her house; the company of a compatriot would be good for her. And let’s see if we can’t all arrange to have dinner one night, the four of us, to relax a little. ‘God save the king!’ ” he added in English by way of farewell, raising his hand theatrically. And without a further word he turned and left.

  We remained in silence a few moments, watching him walk away, unable to find an adjective to assign to the uniqueness of the man who’d just left us.

  “I’ve been looking for you for an hour, where were you?” Marcus asked finally, his eyes still fixed on the high commissioner’s back.

  “I’ve been solving your problems, just like you asked me to do.”

  “You mean you managed to see what it was that the group was passing around?”

  “Nothing important. Family photographs.”

  “God, what bad luck.”

  We talked without looking at each other, both with our eyes on Beigbeder.

  “But I’ve learned other things that might be of interest to you,” I announced.

  “Such as?”

  “Agreements. Negotiations. Deals.”

  “About what?”

  “Antennas,” I explained. “Large antennas. Three of them. About three hundred feet high, a console system, the Electro-Sonner brand. The Germans want to install them to intercept radio signals from air and maritime traffic in the Strait, to make up for the presence of the English in Gibraltar. They’re negotiating to have them installed next to the Tamuda ruins, a few miles from here. In exchange for express permission being granted by Franco, the Nationalist army will receive a substantial sum from the German government. It will all be run by HISMA, a firm whose senior partner is Johannes Bernhardt, who’s the one Serrano closed the deal with. They intend to marginalize Beigbeder, to hide it from him.”

  “My goodness,” he muttered. Then in Spanish: “How did you find out?”

  We went on without exchanging a glance, both of us apparently still looking attentively at the high commissioner, who made his way, greeting people as he went, toward a decorated platform on which someone was setting up a microphone.

  “Because I happened to be in the same room where they were closing the deal.”

  “And they closed the deal right in front of you?” he asked, incredulous.

  “No, don’t worry; they didn’t see me. It’s a rather long story, I’ll tell you about it another time.”

  “Very well. Tell me something else, did they talk about dates?”

  The microphone squeaked with an unpleasantly shrill sound. Testing, testing, said a voice.

  “The parts are ready, and they’re docked at Hamburg. As soon as they have El Caudillo’s signature they’ll be unloaded at Ceuta and the assembly will begin.”

  In the distance we saw the colonel energetically step up onto the dais, calling Serrano over to join him with an expansive gesture. He was still smiling, still greeting people confidently. I asked Marcus a couple of questions.

  “Do you think Beigbeder should know that they’re leaving him out? Do you think I should tell Rosalinda?”

  He thought about it before answering, his eyes still on the two men, who were now receiving the feverish applause of the audience.

  “I suppose so; it would be worthwhile for him to know that. But I think it’s best for the information not to get to him through you and Mrs. Fox, it could compromise her. Leave it to me, I’ll work out the best way of passing it on to him. Don’t say anything to your friend; I’ll find an opportunity.”

  A few more seconds of silence went by, as though he were still considering everything he’d just heard.

  “You know something, Sira?” he asked, turning to face me at last. “Even though I don’t know how you did it, you’ve managed to get hold of an amazing piece of information, much more interesting than I originally thought it would be possible to get during a reception like this. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “There’s a very simple way,” I interrupted him.

  “Which is?”

  At that moment, the caliph’s orchestra launched enthusiastically into “Cara al sol” and dozens of arms were immediately raised as though propelled by a spring. I stood on tiptoes and brought my mouth close to his ear.

  “Get me out of here.”

  Without a
nother word, he held his hand out to me. I gripped it hard and we slipped away toward the end of the garden. As soon as we could tell that no one could see us, we broke into a run, into the shadows.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ___________

  The following morning the world started up again at a different pace. For the first time in several weeks, I didn’t wake up early, didn’t drink a hurried cup of coffee or install myself immediately in the workshop pressured by things to do. Rather than returning to the frantic activity of the previous week, I began my day by resuming the long bath that had been interrupted the previous evening. And then took a walk, to Rosalinda’s house.

  I’d gathered from Beigbeder’s words that her illness was just something mild and passing, no more than an unfortunate upset. Which was why I was expecting to find my friend just the same as ever, ready for me to tell her every detail of the event she’d missed and keen to enjoy my comments on the outfits that the guests were wearing, which of them was the most elegant, which the least.

  A maid led me to her bedroom, where I found her still in bed, surrounded by bolster cushions, with the shutters closed and a thick stale smell of tobacco and medication, and a lack of air. The house was spacious and beautiful: Moorish architecture, English furnishings, and an exotic kind of chaos in which the rugs and the upholstery of the sofas were covered with old records out of their sleeves, letters marked “air mail,” forgotten silk scarves, and Staffordshire porcelain cups with unfinished tea, now cold.

  That morning, however, Rosalinda had an air of anything but glamour.

  “How are you?” I tried not to let my voice come out sounding too concerned. I had good reason to be, however, because of the way she looked: pale, haggard, her hair dirty, slumped in a dead weight on a disheveled bed with the sheets dangling onto the floor.

  “Terminal,” she replied with the blackest humor. “I’m not well at all, but come sit here close to me,” she commanded, patting the bed. “It’s not contagious.”

  “Juan Luis told me last night that it was intestinal trouble,” I said, doing as I’d been told. First I had to move off a few crumpled handkerchiefs, an ashtray filled with half-smoked cigarettes, the remnants of a package of butter cookies, and a decent-sized pile of crumbs.