The Time in Between: A Novel

by Maria Duenas

  The maître d’ led us to a small reserved table in the best corner of the room: a strategically chosen place for seeing and being seen. The band was playing “In the Mood” and there were already countless couples filling the dance floor. Others were having dinner, and I could hear conversations, greetings, laughter; I could inhale the relaxation and the glamour. Manuel waved away the menu and without hesitation ordered for us both. And then—as though he’d been waiting for that moment all day—he settled himself in his chair, ready to turn all his attention on me.

  “So, Arish—tell me. How have my friends treated you?”

  I told him all about my transactions, spicing up the stories a bit. I exaggerated the situations, I made humorous observations, I imitated voices in Portuguese, I made him laugh out loud and scored some points for myself.

  Finally it was my turn to listen and take things in. And if luck was on my side, perhaps to draw a few things out of him, too. “So, tell me, Manuel, how have things been since we were together yesterday morning?”

  He couldn’t tell me right away, because we were interrupted. More greetings, more amiability. If it wasn’t genuine, it certainly seemed so.

  “Baron von Kempel, an extraordinary man,” he noted when the elderly aristocrat with the leonine mane of hair had stepped haltingly away from the table. “Well, we left off talking about how my recent days had been. I need only two words to describe them: excruciatingly boring.”

  I knew he was lying, of course, but I adopted a sympathetic tone.

  “At least you have pleasant offices in which to bear your tedium, and efficient secretaries to help you.”

  “You’re right, I can’t complain. It would be harder if I was working as a stevedore at the port, or if I didn’t have anyone helping me out.”

  “Have they been with you long?”

  “You mean the secretaries? Elisa Somoza, the older of the two, more than three decades: she joined the company in my father’s day, before even I joined. Beatriz Oliveira, the younger, I hired her only three years ago, when I saw that the company was growing and Elisa wasn’t capable of dealing with everything. Congeniality isn’t her strong suit, but she’s organized, responsible, and good with languages. I suppose the new working classes don’t enjoy being too friendly with the boss,” he said, raising his glass as for a toast.

  I didn’t find his sarcasm amusing, but I disguised it, joining him in a sip of white wine. Then a couple approached the table: a stunning older lady in purple shantung down to her feet, with a companion who barely came up to her shoulder. We paused our conversation again; they switched into French; he introduced me and I greeted them with a gracious gesture and a brief enchantée.

  “The Mannheims—Hungarian,” he explained when they’d retreated.

  “Are they all Jews?” I asked.

  “Rich Jews waiting for the war to end or to be granted a visa to travel to America. Shall we dance?”

  Da Silva turned out to be a wonderful dancer. Rumbas, habaneras, jazz, and paso dobles: there was nothing he couldn’t do. I let myself get carried away: it had been a long day, and the two glasses of Douro wine I’d had with my lobster must have gone to my head. The couples on the dance floor were reflected a thousand times in the mirrors on the columns and the walls. It was hot. I closed my eyes a few moments—two seconds, three, maybe four. The moment I opened them, my worst fears had been incarnated in human form.

  In an impeccable tuxedo, hair combed back, his legs slightly apart, hands in his pockets again, and a newly lit cigarette in his mouth—there sat Marcus Logan, watching us dance.

  Get far away, I had to get far away from him—that was the first thing that came to my mind.

  “Shall we sit down? I’m a little tired.”

  Although I tried to leave the dance floor via the opposite side from Marcus, it didn’t do me any good, because I could tell with furtive glances that he was moving in the same direction. We dodged around dancing couples, and he did the same with tables of diners, but we were heading in parallel toward the same place. I noticed my legs shaking, and the heat of the May night suddenly began to feel unbearable. When we were just a few feet from the table, he stopped to greet someone, and I thought that might perhaps be where he’d been heading, but he said good-bye and kept approaching, decisive and determined. We all three reached our table at the same time, Manuel and I from the right, he from the left. And then I thought the end had come.

  “Logan, you old fox, where have you been keeping yourself? It’s been a century since I’ve seen you!” exclaimed Da Silva the moment he spotted him. To my astonishment, they patted each other affectionately on the back.

  “I’ve called you a thousand times, but I can never get hold of you,” said Marcus.

  “Let me introduce you to Arish Agoriuq, a Moroccan friend who arrived a few days ago from Madrid.”

  I held out my hand, trying not to tremble, not daring to look him in the eye. He shook it firmly, as if to say It’s me, here I am—react.

  “Delighted to meet you.” My voice was hoarse and dry, almost cracked.

  “Take a seat, have a drink with us,” Manuel offered.

  “No, thanks. I’m with some friends, I just came over to say hello and remind you that we must meet up.”

  “Sometime very soon, I promise.”

  “Be sure—we have things to talk about.” And then he turned his attention to me.

  “Delighted to meet you, Miss . . .” he said with a little bow. This time I had no choice but to look right at him. There was no longer any trace on his face of the injuries he had when I met him, but he had the same expression: the sharp features and the complicit eyes that asked me, wordlessly, What the hell are you doing here with this man?

  “Agoriuq,” I managed to say as though trying to expel a rock from my mouth.

  “Miss Agoriuq, that’s it, I’m sorry. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again.”

  We watched him as he moved away.

  “A good guy, that Marcus Logan.”

  I took a long drink of water. I needed to refresh my parched throat.

  “English?”

  “Yes, English; we’ve done some business together.”

  I drank again to dispel the unsettled feeling that had overcome me. So he’s no longer a journalist. Manuel’s words pulled me out of my reverie.

  “It’s too hot here. Shall we try our luck on the roulette wheel?”

  Again I pretended to be unimpressed by the opulence of the hall. Magnificent chandeliers hung from golden chains over the tables, around which swirled hundreds of players speaking as many languages as there used to be nations on the map of the old Europe. The carpeted floor muffled the sounds of people’s movements, which emphasized the other sounds that best befitted this paradise of chance: the clicking of the chips against one another, the buzz of the roulette wheels, the clattering of the ivory balls in their wild dances, and the cries of the croupiers closing play with a Rien ne va plus! There were a lot of people throwing away their money sitting around the green baize tables, and even more standing around them watching the games. Aristocrats who in another time had been regular losers and modest winners in the casinos at Baden-Baden, Monte Carlo, and Deauville, Da Silva explained. Impoverished bourgeois, paupers who had become rich, respectable beings who’d been transformed into riffraff, and true riffraff disguised as gentlemen. They’d all dressed up in their finery, triumphant and sure of themselves, the men stiff-collared and with their shirt fronts starched, the women arrogantly displaying their dazzling jewelry collections. There were also some decadent-looking individuals, fearful or furtive in their search for some acquaintance to touch for a bit of cash, perhaps clinging to the more than improbable hope of a glorious night; others prepared to gamble the last of their family jewels or the following morning’s breakfast on the baccarat table. The former were moved by the sheer emotion of the game, by the desire to enjoy themselves, by dizziness, or covetousness; for the latter it was, simply
, the barest desperation.

  For a few minutes we wandered around, watching the various tables; he continued to dispense greetings and exchange friendly words. I barely spoke: all I wanted was to get out of there, to shut myself in my room and forget about the world. I just wished that this accursed day would come to an end once and for all.

  “You don’t look like you fancy becoming a millionairess tonight.”

  I smiled weakly.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said. I tried to put a bit of sweetness into my voice; I didn’t want him to sense my concerns.

  “Would you like me to take you to the hotel?”

  “I’d be grateful.”

  “Just give me a moment.” He took a few steps away from me to hold out his hand to an acquaintance he’d just seen.

  I remained still, absent, not even bothering to distract myself with the fascinating bustle of the hall. And then, almost like a shadow, I realized that he was approaching. He passed behind me, stealthy, almost touching me. Surreptitiously, without even stopping, he took my right hand, opened my fingers, and put something inside. And I let him do it. And then, without a word, he left. As I kept my attention apparently fixed on one of the tables, I nervously felt the thing he’d left me: a bit of paper, folded several times over. I hid it under the wide belt of my dress just as Manuel stepped away from his acquaintance and walked back toward me.

  “Shall we go?”

  “I’ve just got to go to the powder room a moment first.”

  “Very well, I’ll wait for you here.”

  I tried to spot some trace of him as I walked, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in the powder room, just a sleepy-looking old black woman at the door. I took the piece of paper from out of its hiding place and unfolded it with nimble fingers.

  “Whatever happened to the S. I left in T.?”

  S. was of course Sira, and T., Tetouan. Where was the old me of the African days, Marcus was asking. My eyes filled with tears. I opened my handbag in search of a handkerchief and an answer. I found the first, but not the second.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  __________

  On Monday I resumed my outings in search of merchandise for the atelier. They’d arranged a visit for me to a milliner’s on the Rua da Prata, just around the corner from Da Silva’s offices: the perfect excuse for me to drop by, for no reason other than to say hello. And in doing so, to have a look around and see who was in his territory.

  I only found the young, unfriendly secretary; Beatriz Oliveira, he had said was her name.

  “Senhor Da Silva is traveling. Work,” she said, without any further explanation.

  Just as on my previous visit, she made it clear she had no interest in being friendly, but just the same, it occurred to me that this might be the only time I’d be alone with her, so I didn’t want to waste it. Judging by her somber expression and her terseness, I expected it to be extremely difficult to extract even a tiny crumb of anything worthwhile from her, but I had nothing better to do, so I decided to give it a try.

  “Oh my, what rotten luck. I wanted to consult him on a matter concerning the fabrics he showed me the other day. Are they still in his office?” I asked. My heart began to beat hard at the possibility that I might be able to get in without Manuel being around, but she cut short my false hope before it had even taken shape.

  “No. They’ve been taken back to the warehouse.”

  I thought fast. My first attempt had failed; well then, I’d just have to keep trying.

  “Would you mind if I sat down for a minute? I’ve been on my feet all morning looking at caps, turbans, and picture hats; I think I need a bit of a rest.”

  I didn’t give her time to reply: before she had the chance to open her mouth, I dropped into one of the leather armchairs, feigning an exaggerated weariness. We remained in silence for a long while, as she continued to go over a several-page document, from time to time making a little mark or a comment in pencil.

  “Cigarette?” I asked after two or three minutes. Although I wasn’t much of a smoker, I usually had a cigarette case in my handbag. To use at just such moments.

  “No, thank you,” she said without looking at me. She went on working while I lit one. I let her continue for another couple of minutes.

  “It was you who found all the suppliers and arranged the appointments and prepared the folder with all the information, wasn’t it?”

  Finally she looked up for a moment.

  “Yes, it was me.”

  “A great piece of work; you can’t imagine how useful it’s been for me.”

  She muttered a quick thank-you and went back to focusing on her task.

  “Of course, Senhor Da Silva isn’t short of contacts,” I went on. “It must be amazing having business dealings with so many different companies. And so many foreign ones, especially. In Spain everything’s much less interesting.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she murmured.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said I’m not surprised it’s not very interesting, bearing in mind who you’ve got in charge,” she muttered between her teeth with her attention apparently still on her assignment.

  A quick shock of delight ran down my spine: the devoted secretary is interested in politics. All right, I’d try a different approach.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, slowly stubbing out my cigarette. “What do you expect from someone who thinks we women should stay home making dinner and bringing children into the world?”

  “And who has filled up the prisons and denies his defeated opponents the slightest shred of compassion,” she added firmly.

  “It certainly looks that way.” This was going in an unexpected direction; I’d have to act with extreme caution to win her trust and get her on my side. “Do you know Spain at all, Beatriz?”

  I noticed she was surprised that I knew her name. Finally she deigned to put down her pencil and look at me.

  “I’ve never been, but I know what’s going on there. I have friends who tell me. Though you probably don’t have any idea what I’m talking about; you belong to a different world.”

  I got up, approached her desk, and sat down boldly on the edge. I looked at her close up, to check out what there was beneath that outfit made from cheap material, which had undoubtedly been sewn for her years ago by some neighbor for a handful of escudos. Behind her glasses I saw intelligent eyes, and hidden amid the furious devotion with which she approached her work, I could sense a fighting spirit that seemed somehow familiar. Beatriz Oliveira and I weren’t so different. Two hardworking girls from similar backgrounds, backgrounds that were modest and filled with struggle. Two journeys that began from points close to each other and at some point the paths diverged. Time had made her into a meticulously dedicated employee; me, an entirely fake façade. Most likely, though, what we had in common was much more real than our differences. I was staying in a luxury hotel and she would be living in some leaky house in a humble neighborhood, but we both knew what it meant to struggle our whole lives to prevent ill luck from nipping at our heels.

  “I know a lot of people, Beatriz; very different people,” I said in a low voice. “Right now I’m dealing with powerful people because that’s what my job demands of me and because certain unexpected circumstances have introduced me to them, but I know what it’s like to feel the cold in winter, to eat beans day after day and struggle out into the street before the sun has risen to earn a miserable day’s wage. And in case it’s of any interest to you, I don’t like this Spain that’s being built any more than you do. Now will you accept a cigarette?”

  She held out her hand without replying and took one. I held out the lighter, then took another myself.

  “How are things in Portugal?” I asked.

  “Bad,” she said, after exhaling the smoke. “Perhaps Salazar’s Estado Novo isn’t as repressive as Franco’s Spain, but the authoritarianism and the lack of freedom aren’t all that different.”

  “At least
here it looks like you’re going to remain neutral in the European war,” I said, trying to move in closer to my target. “In Spain things aren’t so clear.”

  “Salazar has agreements with the English and the Germans, an uncommon balancing act. The British have always been friends to the Portuguese people, which is why it’s so surprising how generous he’s being with the Germans, granting them export licenses and other privileges.”

  “Well, that’s not unusual nowadays, is it? These are delicate matters in turbulent times. I don’t understand much about international politics, to tell you the truth, but I imagine it’s all a question of self-interest.” I tried to keep my tone trivial, as though the subject barely troubled me: the moment had come to cross the line between the public and the close to home. “The same must happen in the business world, I guess,” I added. “Without going too far afield, just the other day, when I was in the office with Senhor Da Silva, you yourself announced a visit by a German.”

  “Well yes, that’s a different matter.” The expression on her face was one of disgust, and she didn’t seem keen to say any more.

  “The other night Senhor Da Silva invited me to join him for dinner at the casino in Estoril and I was amazed by how many people he knew. He was greeting English people and Americans as well as Germans and a fair number of Europeans from other countries; I’ve never seen anyone with such a facility for getting along with everybody.”

  A twisted grimace displayed her annoyance once again. Still she said nothing, however, so I had no choice but to try to keep talking to prevent the conversation from petering out.

  “I felt sorry for the Jews there, the ones who had to abandon their homes and their businesses to escape from the war.”

  “You felt sorry for the Jews at the Estoril casino?” she asked with a cynical smile. “I don’t feel in the least bit sorry for them: they live like they are permanently on a luxury vacation. The ones I feel sorry for are the poor wretches who have arrived with a pathetic cardboard suitcase and spend their days standing in line outside consulates and shipping offices hoping to get hold of a visa or a passage to America that they might never receive; I feel sorry for the families who sleep all piled up in filthy boardinghouses and go to the soup kitchens for their food, the poor girls offering themselves up on street corners in exchange for a handful of escudos, the old men who kill time in the cafés, sitting in front of dirty cups that have been empty for hours, until the waiter throws them out onto the street to make room for someone else. Those are the ones I feel sorry for. But the ones who gamble away a part of their fortune every night at the casino—I don’t have any pity for them at all.”