by Maria Duenas
The messages were hidden in the locker without the curly-haired girl who looked after that sort of cloakroom showing the slightest sign of complicity when she caught my eye. Either she was a superb collaborator or she hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening right under her nose. The hairdressers dealt with me as skillfully as they did every week, and while they put a wave in my hair—which had now grown down past my shoulders—I pretended to be absorbed in the current issue of a magazine. Though I had little interest in that women’s magazine full of pharmaceutical remedies, sickly sweet stories full of morals, and a long article on Gothic cathedrals, I read it from cover to cover without taking my eyes off it, so as to avoid contact with the rest of the clientele sitting nearby, whose conversations didn’t engross me in the slightest. Unless my visit coincided with that of a client of mine—which happened not infrequently—I had no desire to have even the most cursory chat with anybody.
I left the hairdresser’s salon without the patterns, my hair perfect and my soul still troubled. The afternoon weather remained disagreeable, but I decided to take a walk instead of returning directly home. I preferred to keep myself distracted, distanced from Beigbeder’s letters, while I waited for news from Hillgarth about what to do with them. I wandered aimlessly up the Calle Alcalá as far as the Gran Vía; the stroll was calm and safe at first, but as I went on walking I noticed how the density of people on the pavements increased, well-turned-out passersby mixing with bootblacks, street sweepers, and crippled tramps showing their scars shamelessly in the hope of some charity. It was then that I realized I’d ventured beyond the perimeter that Hillgarth had marked out: I was entering a rather dangerous zone where I might perhaps run into someone who had once known me. They probably wouldn’t ever suspect that this woman walking in an elegant grey wool coat had supplanted the sewing girl I was years ago, but just in case I decided to go into a cinema to kill time for the rest of the afternoon, while also avoiding being any more exposed than I needed to be.
The Palacio de la Musica movie theater was playing Rebecca. The showing had already started, but I didn’t care; I wasn’t there for the plot, I just wanted a little privacy while enough time went by for someone to get instructions to my home about what to do. The usher accompanied me to one of the last rows on one side, while Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine hurtled down a twisting highway in a car with the roof down. As soon as my eyes had become used to the dark, I realized that the main seating area was almost full; my row and the ones around it, however, being farther back, had only a few people scattered here and there. To my left were several couples; to my right, no one. But not for long: just a couple of minutes after I arrived, I noticed someone taking a seat at the far end of the row, no more than ten or twelve places away. A man. Alone. A man alone whose face I couldn’t make out in the shadows. Some man or other, whom I wouldn’t have paid any attention to but for the fact that he was wearing a light-colored raincoat with the collar up, identical to that of the person who’d been following me for more than a week. A man who seemed—judging by the direction of his gaze—to be less interested in the plot of the movie than in me.
A cold sweat trickled down my back. Suddenly I knew that all my suspicions hadn’t been imaginary: that man was there because of me, he’d most probably followed me from the hairdresser’s, perhaps followed me even since I’d left home; he’d been following me the whole time; he’d watched as I paid for my ticket at the box office and as I went through the foyer into the hall and found my seat. Watching me without my noticing him hadn’t been enough for him, however: once he’d tracked me down, he’d installed himself a few feet away, blocking my exit. And I—careless and overwhelmed by the news of Beigbeder’s dismissal—had decided at the last minute not to share my suspicions with Hillgarth, even though they’d been growing with each day that passed. My first thought was to escape, but I realized at once that I was cornered. I couldn’t get to the right-hand aisle without him letting me by; if I decided to go to the left I’d have to bother a whole mass of patrons who’d grumble at the interruption and would have to get up or move their legs aside to let me pass, which would give the stranger more than enough time to leave his seat and follow me. Then I remembered Hillgarth’s advice during our lunch at the American legation: faced with any suspicion that I was being followed, maintain calm, self-control, and an appearance of normality.
The brazenness of the stranger in the raincoat didn’t presage anything good, however; what till now had been a hidden, subtle pursuit had given way abruptly to an ostentatious declaration of intent. I’m here so that you can see me, he seemed to be saying wordlessly. So that you know I’m watching you, and that I know where you go; so that you’re aware that I can step into your life anytime I want to: look, today I’ve decided to follow you to the cinema and block your exit; tomorrow I can do with you whatever I feel like.
I pretended to ignore him and tried hard to focus on the movie, unsuccessfully. The scenes passed before my eyes without any meaning or coherence: a gloomy, majestic mansion, an evil-looking housekeeper, a heroine who always does the wrong thing, the ghost of a fascinating woman floating in the air. The whole audience seemed captivated; my concerns, however, were on another matter closer at hand. As the minutes ticked by and the screen was filled with a succession of images in white, black, and grey, I let my hair fall over the right side of my face several times and so tried covertly to scrutinize the stranger. I wasn’t able to make out his features: the distance and the darkness prevented me. But a sort of silent, tense relationship was established between us, as though we were united by a common lack of interest in the movie. Neither of us held our breath when the nameless heroine broke that porcelain figurine, nor were we overcome with a sense of panic when the housekeeper tried to persuade her to hurl herself out of the window. We didn’t even feel our hearts freeze when we suspected that Maxim de Winter himself might have murdered his depraved wife.
The words “The End” appeared after the fire at Manderley, and the cinema began to be flooded with light. My immediate reaction was to hide my face; for some ridiculous reason I felt that the light would make me seem more vulnerable to my pursuer. I tilted my head, allowed my hair to obscure my face again, and pretended to be engrossed in looking for something in my handbag. When I finally raised my eyes slightly and looked over to my right, the man had disappeared. I remained in my seat until the screen had gone blank, fear clutching the pit of my stomach. Once they had turned on all the lights and the final dawdling spectators left the hall, the ushers came in to collect bits of trash and items accidentally dropped between the seats. It was only then—still afraid—that I steeled myself and got up.
The main lobby was still crammed full and noisy; a downpour was falling on the street and the spectators waiting to leave were mingling with those waiting for the next showing to begin. I took refuge, half hidden behind a column off to one corner, and amid the crowds, the voices, and the thick smoke of a thousand cigarettes, I felt anonymous and momentarily safe. But the fragile feeling of security only lasted a few minutes, which was how long it took for the mass to start to dissolve. The new arrivals were now ready to enter the main hall to lose themselves in the adventures of the de Winters and their ghosts. The remainder of us—the better prepared under the protection of umbrellas and hats, the more reckless under jackets with hoods or collars up and newspapers held open over their heads, the bravest simply filled with daring—began gradually to quit the lavish world of the cinema and go out into the street to confront everyday reality, a reality that on that autumn night showed itself through a thick curtain of inclement falling water.
Finding a taxi was a lost cause, so just like the hundreds of other people who preceded me I braced myself, and with nothing but a silk scarf to cover my hair and the collar of my coat up, I set off back home in the rain. I kept up a fast pace, wanting to get to shelter as soon as possible, to escape from the downpour and from the dozens of suspicions that assailed me as I walked. I turn
ed my head constantly: now I thought he was following me, now I thought he’d stopped. Anyone in a raincoat made me quicken my pace, even if his silhouette wasn’t that of the man I feared. Someone ran past me, and when I felt him brush my arm I ducked for cover by the window of a closed pharmacy; a tramp tugged at my sleeve begging for charity and all he received was a startled cry. I tried to adjust my pace to match that of various respectable-looking couples, until my closeness made them suspicious and they moved away from me. The puddles were covering my stockings with spatterings of mud; my left heel got trapped in a drain. I crossed the streets quickly and anxiously, barely looking at the traffic. The headlights of a car dazzled me at a crossing; a little farther on I was honked at by another car and almost run over by a tram; just a few yards beyond that I managed to leap out of the way of a dark car that probably hadn’t seen me in the rain. Or maybe it had.
I arrived drenched and breathless; the doorman, the night watchman, a handful of neighbors, and five or six nosy passersby were milling about just inside the entrance, assessing the damage done by the water that had seeped into the building’s basement. I went up the stairs two at a time without anyone noticing me, pulling off the drenched scarf as I looked for my keys, relieved at having managed to make it back without running into my pursuer and longing to sink into a hot bath to tear the cold and panic from my skin. But my relief was short-lived. As brief as the seconds it took me to reach the door, enter the apartment, and see what was going on.
That there was a lamp lit in the living room when the house should have been dark was unusual, but there could have been an explanation for it: although Doña Manuela and the girls usually turned everything off before leaving, it’s possible that that night they’d forgotten to do one final check. Which was why it wasn’t the light that struck me as out of place, but what I found at the entrance. A raincoat. A man’s, light colored. Hanging on the coatrack and dripping water with sinister calm.
Chapter Forty-Three
__________
Its owner was waiting for me, sitting in the living room. No words came to my mouth for a stretch of time that seemed to last till the end of the world. The unexpected visitor didn’t speak right away either. We just both stared at each other, in a flustered jumble of memories and feelings.
“So,” he asked at last, “did you enjoy the film?”
I didn’t answer. Sitting in front of me was the man who had been following me for days. The same man who five years ago had left my life dressed in a similar coat; the same man who had disappeared into the mist dragging a typewriter when he learned that I was going to leave him because I had fallen in love with a man who wasn’t him. Ignacio Montes, my first boyfriend, had come back into my life.
“How far we’ve come, eh, Sirita?” he said then, getting up and walking over toward me.
“What are you doing here, Ignacio?” I managed to whisper finally. I hadn’t yet taken off my coat; I noticed water was dripping onto my feet and forming little puddles on the floor. But I didn’t move.
“I’ve come to see you,” he replied. “Dry yourself off and change your clothes; we’ve got to talk.”
He was smiling, and his smile said Damn my desire to smile. I realized then that I was only a few feet from the door I’d just come in; perhaps I could try to run away, to tear down the stairs three at a time, reach the front door, go out into the street, run. I discarded the idea. I suspected it wouldn’t be in my interest to react impulsively without first learning what it was that I was being confronted by, so I simply walked toward him and looked him in the eye.
“What do you want, Ignacio? How did you get in, what have you come for, why have you been watching me?”
“Slowly, Sira, slowly. Ask me one question at a time, don’t get all worked up. But first, if you don’t mind, I’d rather the two of us could make ourselves comfortable. I’m a bit tired, you know—you had me up later than usual last night. Would you mind if I poured myself a drink?”
“You didn’t used to drink,” I said, trying to keep calm.
A laugh as cold as the blade of my scissors tore the room from end to end.
“What a good memory you have. With all the interesting things that must have happened to you in your life over all these years, it’s amazing that you still remember something that simple.”
It was amazing, yes, but I did remember. That, and a whole lot more. Our long evenings of aimless wandering, the dances amid the Chinese lanterns at the fair. His optimism and his tenderness in those days; myself when I was no more than a humble seamstress whose horizon stretched no farther than marriage with a man whose presence filled me now with fear and doubt.
“What’ll you have?” I asked, finally, trying to sound calm, not to show how unsettled I was.
“Whiskey. Cognac. I don’t mind: whatever you offer your other guests.”
I served him a glass, draining the bottle Beigbeder had been drinking from the previous night; there were just a couple of fingers left. When I turned back toward him I could see that he was wearing a regular grey suit—a better cloth and cut than he’d have worn when we were together, lower quality work than the ones worn by the men I’d been surrounded by lately. I put the glass down on the table beside him, and it was only then that I noticed that on the table there was also a box of Embassy candies, wrapped in silver paper and finished off with a pink ribbon tied in a bow.
“Some admirer’s sent you a gift,” he said, stroking the box with his fingertips.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t, I was suddenly breathless. I knew that somewhere in the wrapping of that unexpected gift was a coded message from Hillgarth, a message intended to pass unnoticed by anyone but me.
I sat far from him, at one end of the sofa, tense and still soaked. I pretended to ignore the box of candies and contemplated Ignacio in silence, drawing the wet hair back off my face. He was as thin as ever, but his face was no longer the same. The first white hairs were appearing at his temples even though he was barely more than thirty. He had bags under his eyes, lines at the edges of his mouth, and the weary air of not having led a peaceful life.
“Well, well, Sira, how long it’s been.”
“Five years,” I specified firmly. “Now tell me please what you’ve come for.”
“Several things,” he said. “But first I’d rather you put on some dry clothes. And when you come back, be so kind as to bring me your papers. Asking you for them while on the way out of the cinema seemed rather vulgar under the circumstances.”
“And why should I show you my papers?”
“Because from what I hear you’re a Moroccan citizen now.”
“And what’s that to you? You have no right to meddle in my life.”
“Who said I don’t?”
“You and I have nothing in common. I’m a different person, Ignacio, I have nothing to do with you or with anyone from the time we were together. A lot has happened in my life over these years; I’m no longer who I used to be.”
“None of us are who we used to be, Sira. No one ever is as they were after a war like ours.”
Silence spread out between us. My mind was filled with a thousand images from the past that flocked in like maddened seagulls, a thousand feelings that crashed into one another without my being able to control them. Sitting opposite me was the man who might have ended up being the father of my children, a good man who did nothing but adore me and into whose heart I’d plunged a knife. Sitting opposite me, too, was the man who could become my worst nightmare, who might have spent five years gnawing on his rancor and might be able to do anything to make me pay for my betrayal. Turn me in, for example, accuse me of not being who I said I was, and bring the debts from my past back out into the light.
“Where did you spend the war?” I asked, almost afraid.
“In Salamanca. I went for a few days to see my mother and that’s where the uprising found me. I joined the Nationalists, I had no choice. What about you?”
“In Tetouan,” I said with
out thinking. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so specific, but it was too late to turn back now. Strangely, my reply seemed to please him. A faint smile appeared on his lips.
“Of course,” he said softly. “Of course, now it all makes sense.”
“What makes sense?”
“Something I needed to find out from you.”
“There is nothing you need to find out from me, Ignacio. The only thing you need to do is forget me and leave me in peace.”
“I can’t,” he said forcefully.
I didn’t ask why. I was afraid he’d ask me to explain myself, that he’d reproach me for leaving him and throw back in my face all the pain I’d caused him. Or even worse: I was afraid that he’d tell me he still loved me and beg me to come back to him.
“You’ve got to leave, Ignacio, you’ve got to get me out of your head.”
“I can’t, sweetheart,” he repeated, this time with a note of bitter irony. “I’d like nothing more than never to remember the woman who destroyed me, but I can’t. I work for the General Directorate of Security of the Governance Ministry; I’m charged with watching and following foreigners who cross our borders, especially those who settle in Madrid with a suggestion that they mean to remain permanently. And you’re one of them. At the top of the list.”