The Time in Between: A Novel

by Maria Duenas

  “And did this agent see Bernhardt and meet Da Silva?” I asked with feigned surprise.

  “Not him personally, no, but someone he completely trusts did witness the meeting.”

  I was about to burst out laughing. So his agent had been informed about Bernhardt by someone he trusted completely. Well, after all, that was a compliment.

  “We’re extremely interested in Bernhardt,” Hillgarth went on, oblivious to what was going on in my head. “As I told you in Tangiers, he’s the brain behind SOFINDUS, the corporation through which the Third Reich is conducting its business in Spain. Knowing that he’s having dealings with Da Silva in Portugal is going to be enormously significant for us, because—”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” I interrupted him. “Can I ask you another question? This agent who notified you that Bernhardt had done a deal with Da Silva, is this also someone with the SOE, one of your recent recruits like me?”

  He stubbed out his cigarette thoroughly before replying. Then he looked up.

  “Why do you ask?”

  I smiled with all the candor that I was able to fake.

  “No particular reason,” I said, shrugging. “It’s just such a coincidence that we’ve both turned up with the same information on exactly the same day—it’s almost amusing.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disillusion you, but no, I’m afraid he isn’t a new SOE agent just recruited for this war. The information has come to us through one of our men in the SIS, our—as it were—‘conventional’ intelligence service. And we haven’t the slightest doubt about its veracity: this is an absolutely reliable agent with years of experience. An ‘old hand,’ as you Spaniards would say.”

  Click. A shiver ran down my spine. All the pieces had fallen into place. What I’d heard vindicated perfectly what I’d already suspected, but to have it confirmed absolutely was like a breath of cold air against my soul. This wasn’t the moment to lose myself in sentiment, however, but to keep moving forward. To show Hillgarth that we new recruits were also capable of working ourselves to the bone for the missions we were entrusted with.

  “And your SIS man, did he give you any more information?” I asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  “Regrettably not, he wasn’t able to give us any precise details, but—”

  I didn’t let him go on. “He didn’t tell you how and where the meeting took place and didn’t give you the names and surnames of everyone who attended? He didn’t inform you about the terms that they agreed upon, the quantities of tungsten they expected to extract, the price per ton, the method of payment, and the procedure for evading export taxes? He didn’t tell you that they’re going to stop supplying the English abruptly within two weeks? He didn’t say that Da Silva was not only betraying you, but had also brought the major mine owners in Beira along with him in order to be able to negotiate collectively and secure better terms for the Germans?”

  Beneath his bushy eyebrows, the naval attaché’s gaze had turned to steel. His voice was hoarse.

  “How have you learned all this, Sidi?”

  I held his gaze proudly. They’d forced me onto the very brink of a precipice for more than ten days, and I’d managed to reach the end without toppling over the edge: it was time for him to learn what I’d found there.

  “Because when a seamstress does her job well, she pays attention to every little detail.”

  During our whole conversation I had kept my notebook of patterns discreetly on my lap. The cover was slightly torn, some of the pages folded over, and a large number of stains and bits of dirt bore witness to the tempestuous vicissitudes it had been through since it had left my hotel closet in Estoril. I put it down on the table and rested my open hands on it.

  “All the details are in here: every last syllable of what was agreed that night. Your SIS agent didn’t tell you anything about a notebook either, then?”

  The man who had just reentered my life in such an overwhelming way was undoubtedly an experienced spy for His Majesty’s intelligence services, but on this shady matter of tungsten, on this particular round, I had just beaten him.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  __________

  I left the building where we’d had our secret meeting with something strange clinging to my skin. Something without a name, something new. I walked slowly through the streets, trying to find a label for that feeling, not worrying about whether there was anyone following me and indifferent to the chance of bumping into someone undesirable whenever I went around a corner. There were no external signs to suggest that I wasn’t the same woman who’d walked this pavement in the opposite direction just a few hours earlier, in just the same clothes, her feet in the same shoes. No one who had seen me going then and returning now would have been able to make out any change, except that I was no longer carrying a notebook with me. But I knew what had happened. And Hillgarth knew, too. We were both aware that on that late May afternoon the order of things had altered irreversibly.

  Although he was sparing with his words, his manner made it quite clear that the information I’d just supplied him was an enormously valuable contribution that needed to be analyzed in great detail by his people in London, without a moment to lose. This information was going to set alarm bells ringing, it was going to shatter alliances and reconfigure the direction of hundreds of operations. And with it, I got the sense that the naval attaché’s attitude had been radically altered, too. He’d seen a new image of me: his most reckless recruit, the inexperienced seamstress, who showed some promise but who was still untested, had been transformed overnight into someone capable of resolving delicate matters with the boldness and execution of a professional. Perhaps my methods were unorthodox, and I didn’t have much technical expertise; my world, my country, and my language weren’t the same as his. But I’d responded to the challenge with much more skill than he’d expected, and that put me on a new rung in the hierarchy.

  But what I felt in my bones, as the final rays of sunlight accompanied my return home, wasn’t exactly happiness, either. Or emotion, or excitement. Perhaps the word that best fit the feeling that overwhelmed me was pride. For the first time in a long while, perhaps for the first time in my life, I felt proud of myself. Proud of what I was capable of, what I had been able to get through, proud of having acquitted myself better than had been expected of me. Proud to know that I was capable of making this world full of madmen a safer place. Proud of the woman I had become.

  Yes, it was true that Hillgarth had spurred me on to do it, placing me teetering at the very edge of a chasm. Just as it was true that Marcus had saved my life by getting me off a moving train, and that without his timely help I wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale. Yes, all that was true. But it was also true that I’d made my own contribution, with my courage and my determination, to bring the mission I’d been assigned to a successful conclusion. All my fears, all the sleepless nights and the leaps without a safety net had been worth something after all: not only to get hold of information that would come in handy for the dirty art of war, but also, and especially, to show myself and those around me what I was capable of.

  And then, as I became aware of my possible scope, I knew the time had come for me to stop going blindly down the paths that other people had set for me. It had been Hillgarth’s idea to send me to Lisbon, Manuel Da Silva had decided to get rid of me, Marcus Logan had chosen to come to my rescue. I’d passed between them from hand to hand, like a puppet: for good or ill, for the glory of heaven or the fires of hell, they had all made decisions for me, manipulated me like someone moving a pawn on a chessboard. No one had been open with me, no one had been honest with me about his intentions: it was time now to demand some enlightenment. Time for me to take up the reins of my own existence, to choose my own path, to decide how and with whom I was to follow it. I’d stumble along the way, make missteps, encounter broken glass, accidents, and pools of dark mud. I wasn’t facing an easy future, I was quite sure about that. But the time had come to stop moving forwar
d without any awareness of the terrain I was on and the risks I’d be taking when I got up each morning. In short, it was time to be the mistress of my own life.

  Those three men, Marcus Logan, Manuel Da Silva, and Alan Hillgarth, each of them in his own way—and probably without any of them being aware of it—had helped me to grow in just a few short days. Or perhaps I’d been growing slowly for a long time and it wasn’t until now that I’d become aware of my new stature. I probably wouldn’t see Da Silva again; as for Hillgarth and Marcus, however, I was sure I’d be staying close to them for quite some time. One of them in particular I was eager to keep exactly as close as he’d been in the early hours of that morning: a closeness of affections and bodies—the recollection still made me shiver. But first of all I had to mark out the limits of the new terrain. Clearly. Visibly. Like someone drawing a line on the ground with a piece of chalk.

  When I arrived home I found an envelope that somebody had slipped under the door. It bore the logo of the Palace Hotel and a handwritten card inside.

  “Going back to Lisbon. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Wait for me.”

  Of course I’d wait for him. Figuring out how and where took me just a couple of hours.

  That night I once again bypassed the rules about chain of command without the slightest flicker of remorse. After more than three uninterrupted hours that afternoon, when Hillgarth and I had finished going through all the details of the meeting at the estate, I asked him about the lists he’d brought up when we met the day after the events at the Hippodrome.

  “It’s all still the same; for now there’s no news, as far as we know.”

  That meant that my father was still on the side of the friends of the English, and I was with the Germans. A great pity, because the moment had come for our paths to cross once more.

  I turned up without giving him any warning. Ghosts from another age fluttered furiously when they saw me walk through the front door, bringing with them memories of the day my mother and I had climbed that same staircase, filled with worry. They quickly vanished, fortunately, and took with them some bitter recollections I preferred not to face.

  The door was opened by a servant who bore no resemblance to old Servanda.

  “I need to see Señor Alvarado immediately. It’s urgent. Is he home?”

  She nodded, confused at my haste.

  “In the library?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  Before she was able to finish her sentence, I was already inside.

  “No need to announce me, thank you.”

  He was glad to see me, much more so than I’d expected. Before leaving for Portugal I’d sent him a brief note informing him about my trip, but something must have seemed strange to him. All too hasty, he must have thought; too close to that unsettling scene at the races. He was reassured to know I was back.

  The library was just as I’d remembered it. Perhaps more books and papers had accumulated: newspapers, letters, piles of magazines. Everything else was just as it had been when we’d met there, my father, my mother, and me, years earlier: the first time the three of us had been together, and also the last. That distant autumn afternoon I’d arrived burdened down with nerves and innocence, inhibited and oppressed by the unknown. Almost six years later, my feeling of self-confidence was quite different. I’d won it with blows, with work, through missteps and longings, and it clung to my skin like a scar; nothing could free me from it. However strongly the winds blew, however tough the times to come might be, I knew I’d have the strength to face them and make it through.

  “I need to ask you a favor, Gonzalo.”

  “Anything you want.”

  “A meeting for five people. A little private party. Here at your house, on Tuesday night. You and me and three other guests. You’ll have to invite two of them directly, without letting them find out that I’m involved. There won’t be any problem, as you know them both.”

  “And the third?”

  “I’ll take care of the third myself.”

  He accepted without any further questions or any reservations. In spite of my unnerving behavior, my unexpected disappearances, and my fake identity, he seemed to trust me blindly.

  “What time?” he asked simply.

  “I’ll be here in the midafternoon. And the guest you don’t yet know will arrive at six; I’ll have to talk to him before the others arrive. Can I meet him here in the library?”

  “It’s all yours.”

  “Perfect. Invite the other couple for eight, please. And one more thing—do you mind them knowing that I’m your daughter? It’ll stay between the five of us.”

  It took a few seconds for him to reply, during which I thought I saw a new sparkle come to his eyes.

  “It would be a matter of honor and pride.”

  We chatted a little while longer: about Lisbon and Madrid; about this, that, and the other, always remaining on safe ground. When I was just about to leave, however, his usual discretion failed him.

  “I know it’s not my place to meddle in your life at this stage, Sira, but. . . ”

  I turned and hugged him.

  “Thank you for everything. You’ll find out all about it on Tuesday.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  __________

  Marcus appeared at the appointed time. I’d left a message for him at his hotel, and as I’d expected it reached him easily. He had no idea whose address that was: he just knew that I’d be waiting for him there. And there I was indeed, in a red silk crêpe suit, dazzling right down to my toes. Made up to perfection, with my long neck uncovered and dark hair gathered in a high bun. Waiting.

  He arrived, looking impeccable in his dinner jacket, his shirt front starched and his body hardened by a thousand unmentionable adventures. Or at least, unmentionable until now. I went to open the door for him myself the moment I heard the bell. We greeted each other, struggling to hide our affection, standing so close, almost intimate at last.

  “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

  Taking his arm, I led him to the living room.

  “Marcus, this is Gonzalo Alvarado. I’ve brought you to his house because I want you to know who he is. And I also want him to know who you are. For him to be quite clear who we both are.”

  They greeted each other politely, Gonzalo poured us a drink, and the three of us chatted about banalities for a few minutes, until the maid—in a very timely fashion—came to the door to summon the host to take a telephone call.

  We were left alone, looking like the perfect couple. To see something that was closer to the truth, however, you just needed to hear the hoarse words that Marcus murmured in my ears, barely moving his lips.

  “Can we speak in private a moment?”

  “Of course. Come with me.”

  I led him to the library. The grand portrait of Doña Carlota still presided from the wall behind the desk, with her diamond tiara that once was mine, and later no longer mine.

  “Who’s the man you just introduced me to, why do you want him to know about me? What is this ambush all about, Sira?” he asked roughly when we were separated from the rest of the house.

  “It’s one I’ve prepared specially for you,” I said, sitting down in one of the chairs. I crossed my legs and stretched my right arm out over the backrest. Comfortable, mistress of the situation, as though I’d spent my whole life setting up traps like this. “I need to know whether it is convenient for me that you should remain in my life, or if it’s better that we don’t see each other again.”

  He didn’t find my words the least bit funny.

  “This doesn’t make any sense; maybe it would be best for me togo . . . ”

  “You’re giving up so easily? Only three days ago it seemed as though you were prepared to fight for me. You promised you would at any cost: you told me you’d lost me once and you weren’t going to let it happen again. Have your feelings cooled that quickly? Or were you lying to me, perhaps?”

  He looked at me without
saying a word, still standing, tense and cold, distant.

  “What do you want from me, Sira?” he said at last.

  “I want you to be honest with me about your past. In exchange you’ll know everything you need to know about my present. And on top of that you’ll get a reward, too.”

  “What is it about my past that you want to know?”

  “I want you to tell me what you went to Morocco for. Do you want to know what your reward will be?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Your reward will be me. If I’m satisfied with your answer, you get to keep me. If I’m not convinced, you lose me forever. You choose.”

  He was silent again. Then he walked slowly toward me.

  “Why on earth should you care now why I went to Morocco?”

  “Once, years ago, I opened my heart to a man who didn’t show me his true face, and it took infinite efforts on my part to close up the wounds he made in my soul. I don’t want the same thing to happen with you. I don’t want any more lies, any more shadows. I don’t want men simply availing themselves of me to suit their whims, coming closer and moving away again without any warning, even though it might be to save my life. That’s why I need to see your whole hand now, Marcus. I’ve seen some of your cards already: I know who you work for and I know that you aren’t really in the business world, I know you weren’t really in journalism back then, either. But there are other gaps in your story that I still need to fill.”

  Finally he settled on the arm of a sofa. He kept one foot on the floor and crossed the other over it. His back straight, his glass still in his hand, his face set in determination.

  “Very well,” he agreed after a few seconds. “I’m prepared to talk. In exchange for your being honest with me. About everything.”

  “Afterward, I promise.”

  “Tell me what you know about me, then.”

  “That you’re a member of the British military secret service. The SIS, MI6, whatever you prefer to call it.”

  The surprise didn’t show on his face: he’d probably been trained not to reveal his emotions. Not like me. I hadn’t been trained to do anything, I hadn’t been prepared, I hadn’t been protected: I’d just been thrown naked out into a world of ravenous wolves. But I’d learned, on my own, struggling, stumbling, falling, and getting back up; setting off again—one foot, then the other. My head held high, eyes fixed straight ahead of me.