The Time in Between: A Novel

by Maria Duenas

  “I’ve come to offer you a job.”

  I laughed.

  “I’ve got a job already.”

  “I’m going to propose another one.”

  I laughed again and drank. Pink gin, as on so many other occasions.

  “Doing what?” I said.

  “The same as you’re doing now, but in Madrid.”

  When I realized she was being quite serious, my laughter dried up, and I, too, changed my tone of voice.

  “I’m comfortable in Tetouan. Things are going well here, better every day. My mother likes living here, too. Our atelier is going wonderfully well; actually, we’re thinking about taking on an apprentice to help us. We haven’t made plans to go back to Madrid.”

  “I’m not talking about your mother, Sira, only about you. And there won’t be any need to close the workshop in Tetouan; I’m sure this will only be a temporary thing. Or at least I hope it will. When it’s all over, you can come back.”

  “When what’s all over?”

  “The war.”

  “The war ended more than a year ago.”

  “Yes, yours did. But now there’s another one.”

  She got up, changed the record, and raised the volume. More jazz, just instrumental this time. She was trying to prevent our conversation from being heard on the other side of the curtain.

  “There’s another war, a terrible one. My country is in it and yours might enter at any moment. Juan Luis has done everything he can to keep Spain on the sidelines, but the course of events seems to indicate that it’ll be very hard. Which is why we want any help we can get to minimize the pressure that Germany is putting on Spain. If our plan works, your nation will stay out of the war, and mine will have a better chance of winning it.”

  I still didn’t understand what my job had to do with all that, but I didn’t interrupt her.

  “Juan Luis and I,” she went on, “are trying to make a few of our friends aware so that they’ll contribute in any way that they can. He hasn’t been able to put any pressure on the government from the ministry, but it’s possible to do things from outside, too.”

  “What sorts of things?” I asked in a whisper. I didn’t have the slightest idea what was going through her head. My expression must have been amusing, because she finally laughed.

  “Don’t panic, querida. We’re not talking about planting bombs in the German embassy or sabotaging major military operations. I’m referring to discreet campaigns of resistance. Observing. Infiltrating. Obtaining information through little gaps here and there. Juan Luis and I are not alone in this. We’re not just a couple of idealists looking for foolhardy friends to get involved in some implausible plot.”

  She refilled the glasses and turned up the volume on the gramophone again. We each lit another cigarette. She sat down again and her blue eyes fixed themselves on mine. Around them were dark circles I’d never seen before.

  “We’re trying to set up a network of underground collaborators in Madrid linked to the British secret services. Collaborators with no connection to political life, to the diplomatic service or the military. People who aren’t known, who under the appearance of a normal life can find out about things and then pass them on to the SOE.”

  “What’s the SOE?” I murmured.

  “The Special Operations Executive. A new organization within the secret services that has just been created by Churchill, for matters relating to the war, and on the fringes of what the regular agents are doing. They’re signing people up all over Europe. It’s like an espionage service, but not a very orthodox one. Not a very conventional one.”

  “I don’t understand.” I was still whispering.

  I really didn’t understand. Secret services. Underground collaborators. Agents. Espionage. Infiltrating. This was the first time I’d heard about any of this in my life.

  “Well, you shouldn’t imagine I’m so used to all this terminology myself. It’s practically new to me, too; I’ve had to learn an awful lot terribly fast. As I told you in one of my letters, Juan Luis has become close to British ambassador Hoare lately. And now that his days at the ministry are numbered, the two of them have decided to work together. Hoare doesn’t directly control the secret services in Madrid himself, however. Let’s say he oversees it, he’s ultimately responsible for it, but he doesn’t coordinate it personally.”

  “So who does, then?”

  I was waiting for her to tell me she did it herself and reveal that it had all been no more than a joke. And we’d both laugh wildly about it and then finally go out for dinner and dancing at Villa Harris as we’d done so many times before. But she didn’t.

  “Alan Hillgarth, our embassy’s naval attaché; he’s the person in charge of the whole thing. He’s a very special fellow, a marine from a family with a long navy tradition, married to a lady from the high aristocracy who is also involved in his activities. He arrived in Madrid at the same time as Hoare, under the cover of his official position, to take covert charge of the activities of the SOE and the SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service.”

  SOE: Special Operations Executive. SIS: Secret Intelligence Service. The whole thing sounded completely strange to me. I pressed her to clarify.

  “The SIS is the Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6, the Directorate of Military Intelligence Section 6; the sixth section of Military Intelligence, an agency dedicated to the secret services’ operations outside Great Britain. Espionage activities in non-British territories, to be quite clear. It’s been in operation since before the Great War, and its staff, usually under some diplomatic or military cover, are involved in covert actions normally through existing power structures, through influential people or authorities in the countries in which they are operating. The SOE, in contrast, is new. It’s riskier, because they don’t depend just on professionals, but for the same reason it’s also much more flexible. It’s an emergency operation for the new wartime, if I can put it like that. They’re prepared to collaborate with anyone who might be of use to them. The organization has only just been established, and Hillgarth, the coordinator for Spain, needs to recruit agents. Urgently. And for this he’s sounding out people he trusts who can put him in contact with other people who in turn can be directly helpful. So you might say that Juan Luis and I are that kind of intermediary. Hoare hasn’t been around for long at all, he hardly knows anyone. Hillgarth spent the whole civil war as vice consul in Majorca, but he’s also new in Madrid and not yet in absolute control of his territory. We haven’t been asked, Juan Luis and I—he as an openly Anglophile minister and I as a British citizen—to be directly involved: they know that we’re too well known and we’ll always be suspected. But they have approached us to supply them with contacts. So we’ve thought about a few of our friends. You, among others. And that’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  I preferred not to ask what exactly it was that she wanted from me. Whether or not I did, she was going to tell me anyway, and it would provoke just the same panic in me, so I decided to focus my attention on filling the glasses again; all this was far too heavy to deal with without a drink. But the cocktail shaker was empty. So I got up and rummaged among the boxes stacked against the wall. I took out a bottle of something that turned out to be whiskey, removed the cap, and took a long swig. I passed it to Rosalinda. She did the same and handed it back, then continued talking. Meanwhile, I went back to my drinking.

  “We thought that you could set up an atelier in Madrid and sew for the wives of the high-ranking Nazis.”

  My throat closed up, and the shot of whiskey I had almost swallowed shot back out of my mouth in a loud spray. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. When I was finally able to speak, only four words came out.

  “You’re both raving mad.”

  She didn’t even seem to acknowledge that I was referring to her and went on.

  “They all used to get their clothes in Paris, but since the German army invaded France in May most of the haute couture houses have shut down; not man
y people want to keep working in occupied Paris. La Maison Vionnet, La Maison Chanel on the Rue Cambon, the Schiaparelli shop on the Place Vendôme: almost all the major ones have gone.”

  Rosalinda’s references to Parisian haute couture, perhaps coupled with my nerves, the cocktails, and the shots of whiskey, made me give a hoarse laugh.

  “And you want me to replace all these designers in Madrid?”

  I couldn’t get her to share my laughter, and she went on talking seriously.

  “You could try it out in your own way, on a small scale. This is the perfect moment, because there aren’t that many choices. Paris is now out of the question, and Berlin is too far. Either they get their wardrobes in Madrid or they don’t get to show off new designs for the season that’s just about to begin, which would be a tragedy for them because the essence of their lives these days is centered exclusively on an intense social life. I’ve been learning about it: a lot of Madrid’s ateliers are back in operation now, getting ready for the autumn. There was a rumor that Balenciaga was going to reopen his workshop this year, but he ended up not doing it. I’ve got the names here of the ones that are planning to open,” she said, removing a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket. “Flora Villareal; Brígida at number thirty-seven, Carrera de San Jerónimo; Natalio at number eighteen Lagasca; Madame Raguette at number two, Bárbara de Braganza; Pedro Rodríguez at number sixty-two Alcalá; Cottret at number eight, Fernando Sixth.”

  Some of them were familiar to me, others weren’t. Doña Manuela could have been among them, but Rosalinda didn’t mention her: perhaps she hadn’t reopened her workshop. When she had finished reading the list she tore the bit of paper into a thousand little pieces and left them in the ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

  “In spite of the efforts to show new collections and offer customers the best designs, they all, however, share the same problem, they all have the same limitation. So it won’t be easy for any of them to make a success of it.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The scarcity of fabric, the severe scarcity of fabric. Neither Spain nor France is producing materials for this sort of sewing; those factories that haven’t closed down are focusing on fulfilling the basic needs of the population or developing materials destined for the war. They use the cotton to make uniforms; the linen, bandages; any sort of fabric has a function that’s a higher priority than fashion. You’ll be able to overcome this problem by bringing fabrics from Tangiers. There’s still trade here, there’s no problem with imports like there is on the Peninsula. You get products coming here from America and Argentina, there’s still a good stock of French fabrics and English wools, Indian and Chinese silks from previous years: you can take it all with you. And if you end up needing more supplies, we’ll find some way for you to get hold of them. If you arrive in Madrid with material and ideas, and if I can spread the word among my contacts, you could be the dressmaker of the season. You won’t have any competition, Sira: you’ll be the only person who can give them what they want: ostentation, luxury, utter frivolity, as though the world were a grand ballroom rather than the bloody battlefield they’ve made it. And the German women, all of them, will be over you like vultures.”

  “But they’ll connect me to you,” I said, trying to cling to anything that might prevent me from being swept away by this lunatic plan.

  “Not at all. No one has any reason to. The Germans in Madrid have mostly just arrived and they have no contact with the ones in Morocco; no one has to suspect that you and I know each other. Though naturally your experience of sewing for their compatriots in Tetouan will be a great help to you: you know their tastes, you know how to handle them and how to behave with them.”

  As she was speaking, I closed my eyes and just shook my head from side to side. For a few seconds my mind went back to my early months in Tetouan, to the night Candelaria showed me the pistols and proposed that we sell them to open the atelier. The feeling of panic was just the same, and the scenario was similar: two women hidden away in a dark little room, one laying out a dangerous, fully thought out plan, and the other, terrified, refusing to accept it. But there were certain differences—big differences. The plan Rosalinda was proposing to me was on quite another scale.

  Her voice brought me back from the past, made me abandon the wretched bedroom in the La Luneta boardinghouse and reposition myself in the reality of the little storeroom at the back of Dean’s Bar.

  “We’ll give you a reputation, we have ways of doing that. I’m well connected in the circles that are of interest to us in Madrid; we’ll get word of mouth going so that people hear about you without ever connecting you to me. The SOE will cover all the initial costs: they’ll pay for the rental of the place, the setup of the workshop, and the initial investment in fabric and equipment. Juan Luis will take care of the paperwork for customs and get you the permits you need to move the merchandise from Tangiers to Spain; it’ll have to be a considerable supply, because once he’s out of the ministry these things will be much harder to arrange. You’ll take all the profit from the business. All you have to do is what you’re doing in Morocco, but paying greater attention to what you hear from your German clients, as well as any Spanish women connected to the structures of power and to the Nazis. The German women are utterly idle and they have more money than they need. Your atelier could become a place for them to meet. You’ll hear about where their husbands are going, the people they meet, the plans they have, and the visitors they’re receiving from Germany.”

  “I barely speak any German.”

  “You can communicate well enough to make them feel comfortable with you.”

  “I don’t know much more than numbers, greetings, colors, the days of the week, and a handful of random phrases,” I insisted.

  “It doesn’t matter; we’ve already thought about that. We’ve got someone who can help you. All you’ll have to do is assemble the bits of information and then get them to their destination.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged.

  “That’s something Hillgarth will have to tell you if you accept. I don’t know how these operations work; I imagine they’ll design something especially for you.”

  I shook my head again, this time more emphatically.

  “I’m not going to accept, Rosalinda.”

  She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “Why not?” she asked through the smoke.

  “Because I won’t,” I said bluntly. I had a thousand reasons not to embark on that nonsense, but I preferred to pile them all up into a single refusal. No. No, I wouldn’t do it. Decisively no. I took another slug of whiskey from the bottle; it tasted horrible.

  “Why not, querida? Because you’re afraid, no?” She was speaking quietly now, confidently. The music had come to an end; the only sound was the needle scratching over the surface of the record and a few voices and some laughter coming from the other side of the curtain. “We’re all afraid, we’re all utterly terrified,” she murmured. “But that’s not a good enough reason. We have to get involved, Sira. We have to help. You, me, all of us, each in whatever way we can. We have to contribute our grain of sand to make sure this madness doesn’t go any further.”

  “Besides, I can’t go to Madrid. I have unfinished business to deal with. You know what I’m referring to.”

  The matter of the fraud charges from Ramiro’s time still hadn’t been resolved. Since the end of the civil war I’d talked to Commissioner Vázquez about it a couple of times. He’d tried to find out what the situation was in Madrid, but he hadn’t gotten anywhere. Everything’s still very chaotic, we’ll let some time go by, wait for things to calm down, he’d say to me. And having no intention of going back, I’d waited. Rosalinda knew the situation; I’d told her about it myself.

  “We’ve thought about that, too. About that, and about the fact that you have to be covered, you have to be protected from any eventuality. Our embassy couldn’t be responsible for you if there were t
o be any problem, and the way things are it’s risky for a Spanish citizen. But Juan Luis has had an idea.”

  I wanted to ask her what it was, but I couldn’t find my voice. Nor did I need to say anything; she set it all out for me right away.

  “He can get you a Moroccan passport.”

  “A fake passport,” I countered.

  “No, querida, a real one. He’s still got very good friends in Morocco. You could be a Moroccan citizen within a few hours. With of course a different name.”

  I got up and noticed I was finding it hard to keep my balance. In my brain—amid the pool of whiskey and gin—all those alien words were splashing messily around. Secret service, agents, operatives. False names, Moroccan passports. I leaned against the wall and tried to recover my composure.

  “Rosalinda—no. Please, don’t go on. I can’t agree.”

  “You don’t have to make a decision right now. Think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. What time is it?”

  She looked at her watch; I tried to do the same with mine but the numbers seemed to dissolve before my eyes.

  “A quarter to ten.”

  “I have to get back to Tetouan.”

  “I’ve arranged for a car to come and collect you at ten, but I don’t think you’re in any state to go anywhere. Stay the night in Tangiers. I’ll get them to give you a room in the El Minzah and to let your mother know.”

  A bed to sleep in and forget that whole dark conversation seemed the most tempting of offers. A big bed with white sheets, in a beautiful room in which I’d wake up the following day to find that this meeting with Rosalinda had just been a nightmare. A wild nightmare out of nowhere. Suddenly some lucidity sparked up from a distant corner of my brain.