The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Seventeen

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With the arrival of spring, the volume of work increased. The weather was changing, and my clients needed lighter outfits for the bright mornings and the imminent Moroccan summer nights. A few new faces appeared, a few more German women, some more Jews. Thanks to Félix I managed to get a more or less precise idea of them all. He used to pass the clients at the main entrance or on the stairs, the landing, or the street when they were entering or leaving the workshop. He amused himself by looking for snippets of information to create their profiles: who they were, their families, where they were going, where they’d come from. Then later, when he’d leave his mother slumped in her armchair, her half-closed eyes rolled up and boozy drool hanging from her mouth, he would reveal to me what he had learned.

That was how, for example, I discovered certain details concerning Frau Langenheim, one of the German ladies who had quickly become regulars. Her father had been the Italian ambassador to Tangiers and her mother was English; her husband, an older mining engineer, was tall, bald, and a respected member of the small but determined German colony in Spanish Morocco. He was one of the Nazis, Félix told me, who almost unexpectedly and to the astonishment of the Republicans had secured directly from Hitler the first outside assistance for Franco’s army, just a few days after the uprising. It would be a while before I’d be able to gauge to what extent the activities of my client’s stiff husband had proved crucial to the course of the civil war. However, thanks to Langenheim and Bernhardt, another German living in Tetouan—whose half-Argentine wife was an occasional client of mine—Franco’s troops, without having planned for it and in a tiny period of time, got hold of a fine arsenal of military assistance, which enabled them to transport their men to the Peninsula. Months later, as a sign of gratitude and recognition for her husband’s significant actions, my client would be granted the greatest honor in the Protectorate from the hands of the caliph, and I would dress her in silk and organza for the occasion.

Long before that official event, Frau Langenheim arrived at the atelier one April morning with someone I’d not seen before. She rang the bell, and Jamila opened the door; I was waiting in the living room, meanwhile, pretending to examine the weft of a fabric against the light that was streaming in through the balcony windows. In reality I wasn’t examining anything at all; I had simply adopted that pose to receive my clients in order to establish an air of professionalism.

“I’ve brought an English friend, for her to see the things you make,” said the German’s wife as she stepped confidently into the room.

A woman appeared beside her, blond and extremely thin. I calculated that she must have been more or less my own age, but because of the ease with which she behaved she could easily have lived a thousand lives by now, each the length of mine. My attention was drawn to the devastating confidence she radiated and the unaffected elegance with which she greeted me, lightly grazing my fingers with hers while with an airy gesture she pushed a wave of hair back from her face. Her name was Rosalinda Fox, and she had skin so light and fine that it seemed to be made of tissue paper, as well as a strange form of speaking in which words from different languages leapt about chaotically in an extravagant and sometimes incomprehensible torrent.

“I need wardrobe immediately; entonces creo que . . . , I believe you and I, vamos . . . er . . . a entendernos. We will understand each other, I mean,” she said, polishing off the sentence with a slight laugh.

Frau Langenheim refused the invitation to be seated with an I’m- in-a-rush-dear-I’ve-really-got-to-go. In spite of her surname and the jumble of her origins, she spoke Spanish fluently.

“Rosalinda, my dear, I’ll see you this evening at Consul Leonini’s cocktail party,” she said, bidding her friend good-bye. “Adiós, querida—bye, sweetie, bye.”

I sat down with the woman who had just arrived, and I began the routine I’d used on so many first visits. I displayed my catalog of poses and expressions as we leafed through magazines and examined fabrics; I gave her advice and she made choices; then she reconsidered her decisions, corrected herself, and chose again. The elegant naturalness with which she behaved made me feel comfortable with her right from the start. Sometimes I found the artificiality of my behavior tiring, especially when I was facing particularly demanding clients. That wasn’t the case here: everything flowed with no tension or unreasonable demands.

We moved into the fitting room and I took measurements, noting the catlike slenderness of her bones, the smallest I’d ever seen. We continued to talk about fabrics and patterns, about sleeves and necklines, then we went back over what she had chosen, confirming the details before I drew up the order. A morning dress in patterned silk, a suit in coral-pink laine glacée, and an evening gown inspired by the latest collection from Lanvin. I gave her a fitting date for ten days later and with that I thought we were done. But the new client decided it wasn’t yet time to leave, and, still comfortably settled on the sofa, she took out a tortoiseshell cigarette case and offered me one. We smoked awhile, commenting on designs in some of the magazines as she described her tastes to me in her foreigner’s half language. Pointing at various photos, she asked me how you said “embroidery” in Spanish, how you said “shoulder straps” and “buckle.” I clarified the things she was unsure about, we laughed at the delicate awkwardness of her pronunciation, and we had another cigarette before she decided to leave, calmly, as though she had nothing to do and no one waiting for her anywhere. First she touched up her makeup, looking without much interest at her reflection in the little compact mirror. Then she rearranged her waves of golden hair and retrieved her hat, her bag and gloves, all elegant and of the finest quality, but also brand-new. I said good-bye to her at the door, listened to her heels tapping down the stairs, and heard no word of her until many days later. I never bumped into her on my walks at dusk, never met up with her at any establishment; no one spoke to me of her, nor did I make any attempt to find out who this Englishwoman was who seemed to have so much time on her hands.

My activity those days didn’t stop: the growing number of clients meant that my work hours just kept getting longer, but I managed to arrive at a sensible rhythm, sewing till the early hours without a break and having every garment ready by its allotted time. Ten days after that first meeting, the three items that Rosalinda Fox had ordered were resting on their respective mannequins, ready for the first fitting. But she didn’t show up. Nor on the next day, nor the next. Nor did she take the trouble to send me a message explaining her absence, postponing the date, or justifying her lateness. It was the first time this had happened to me with an order. I thought that perhaps she had no intention of coming back, that she’d been a foreigner just passing through, one of those privileged souls able to leave the Protectorate on a whim and move freely beyond its borders: a woman who was truly cosmopolitan, not fake worldly like myself. Unable to find any reasonable explanation for such behavior, I chose to set the matter aside and focus on the rest of my commitments. Five days later than we’d agreed upon, she appeared, as though dropping from the sky, when I was still finishing my lunch. I’d been working in haste all morning and had finally managed to take a break at three in the afternoon. Someone rang the doorbell and Jamila answered it while I was finishing off a plate of plantains in the kitchen. As soon as I heard the Englishwoman’s voice at the other end of the corridor, I washed my hands and ran to put on my heels. I rushed out to greet her, cleaning my teeth with my tongue and retouching my hair with one hand while repositioning the seams of my skirt and the lapels of my jacket with the other. Her greeting was as protracted as her delay had been.

“I have to tell you how extremely sorry I am for not coming before and arriving now so unexpectedly. I’ve been away algunos días—a few days—I had things to sort out in Gibraltar, though I fear I wasn’t able to. Anyway, I hope I’m not arriving at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” I lied. “Please, do come in.”

I led her through to the fitting room and showed her the three designs. She praised them as she took off her clothes till she was down to her underwear. She was wearing a satin combination that in its day must have been a delight, but time and wear had partly stripped it of its former splendor. Her silk stockings didn’t exactly look like they were fresh from the shop either, but they exuded glamour and exquisitely fine quality. One by one I tried my three creations on her fragile, bony body. Her skin was so transparent that it was possible to see the bluish network of veins underneath. With my mouth filled with pins, I set about making minute corrections and adjusting little pinches of fabric to the delicate contours of her shape. She seemed pleased throughout the process, allowing me to get on with it, agreeing to the suggestions I offered and barely asking for any changes. When we finished the fitting, I assured her that it would all end up being très chic. I left her to put her clothes back on and waited in the living room. She only took a couple of minutes to come back in, and I guessed from her attitude that despite her untimely arrival she wasn’t particularly anxious to leave that day either. So I offered her some tea.

“I’m dying for a cup of Darjeeling with just a drop of leite—milk, but I’m guessing it will have to be green tea with mint, no?”

I hadn’t the least idea what this concoction was that she was talking about, but I hid it.

“Just so, Moorish tea,” I said without the slightest concern. I gestured to her to take a seat and called for Jamila.

“Even though I’m English,” she explained, “I’ve lived most of meu vida—my life—in India, and even though I’ll probably never go back there are a lot of things I still miss. Like our tea, for example.”

“I know what you mean. I also find it hard to get used to some things here and I do miss other things I’ve left behind.”

“Where did you live before here?” she wanted to know.

“In Madrid.”

“And before that?”

I was about to laugh at her question, to forget all the impostures I had invented for my supposed past and acknowledge that I’d never set foot outside the city where I was born until a scoundrel decided to drag me along with him only to abandon me like a cigarette butt. But I restrained myself and reverted to my feigned vagueness.

“Oh, different places, here and there, you know how it is, though Madrid is probably the place I’ve lived longest. And you?”

“A ver—let’s see,” she said with an amused expression. “I was born in England, but taken out to Calcutta immediately afterward. My parents sent me back to England when I was ten to study, umm . . . then at sixteen I returned to India and at twenty came back again to the West. Once I was here I spent some time in London. Then another long stretch in Switzerland. Then another year in Portugal—that’s why I sometimes confuse the two languages, Portuguese and Spanish. And now, at last, I’ve settled in Africa: first in Tangiers, and then, a short while back, here in Tetouan.”

“Sounds like an interesting life,” I said, unable to retain the order of that jumble of exotic destinations.

“Bueno, depends how you look at it,” she replied, shrugging, as she sipped at the cup of tea Jamila had just served us, careful to not burn her lips. “I wouldn’t have minded at all to have stayed in India, but I had some things that happened to me unexpectedly and I had to move. Sometimes luck decides to make our decisions for us, no? Así es la vida. That’s life, no?”

Despite the strange way she pronounced her words and the obvious distance that separated our worlds, I knew precisely what she meant. We finished our tea chatting about insignificant things: the little finishing touches I’d have to give the sleeves of the dress in patterned dupioni silk, the date for the next fitting. She looked at the time and immediately remembered something.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, getting up. “I’d forgotten I have to do unas compras, some shopping before I go back to get ready. I’ve been invited to cocktails at the house of the Belgian consul.”

She spoke without looking at me as she adjusted her gloves, her hat. I watched her with curiosity, wondering with whom would this woman be going to all these parties, with whom did she share this freedom to come and go; I wondered about her carefree, privileged background, constantly traversing the world, leaping from one continent to another to speak confusing languages and drink tea that tasted of a thousand different places. Comparing her seemingly leisurely life with my everyday work, I felt the touch of something running down my spine that resembled envy.

“Do you know where I can buy a bathing suit?” she asked suddenly.

“For you?”

“No, for meu filho.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, sorry—my son?”

“Your son?” I asked in disbelief.

“His name’s Johnny, he’s five years old and es un amor . . . an absolute darling.”

“I haven’t been in Tetouan long either, I don’t think I can help you,” I said, trying not to show my uneasiness. In the idyllic life that only a few seconds earlier I’d been imagining for that flighty, childlike woman, there might have been room for friends and admirers, for glasses of champagne, transcontinental travels, silk lingerie, parties till dawn, haute couture evening wear, and—with a great deal of effort—perhaps a husband as young, frivolous, and attractive as she was. But I never could have guessed that she would have a son, because I had never imagined her to be a woman with a family. And yet it seemed she was.

“Anyway, not to worry, I’ll find one somewhere,” she said by way of farewell.

“Good luck. And remember, I’ll be expecting you in five days.”

“I’ll be here, I promise.”

She left and did not keep her promise. Instead of the fifth day, she turned up on the fourth: without prior notice and in a tearing hurry. Jamila announced her arrival to me at around noon when I was doing a fitting for Elvirita Cohen, the daughter of the owner of the Teatro Nacional on my old street, La Luneta, and one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Siñora Fox say she need see Siñorita Sira.”

“Tell her to wait, I’ll be with her in a minute.”

One o’clock had gone by, twenty past probably, because I still had to make quite a few adjustments to the dress that the beautiful Jewish girl with the smooth skin was going to show off at some social event. She spoke to me in her musical Haketia: bring it up a bit here, mi reina, how lovely it looks, mi weno, ah yes.”

It was through Félix, as usual, that I had learned what the situation was like for Sephardic Jews in Tetouan. Some of them wealthy, others humble, all of them discreet; good businessmen who had set up shop in North Africa after their expulsion from the Peninsula centuries earlier. At last they were Spaniards with all their rights, ever since the government of the Republic had agreed officially to recognize their origins just a couple of years earlier. The Sephardic community made up more or less one-tenth of Tetouan’s population in those days, but it wielded a good part of the city’s economic power. They built most of the new buildings in the ensanche and set up many of the best shops and businesses in the city: jewelers, shoemakers, fabric and clothing stores. Their financial might was reflected in their educational centers—the Alliance Israélite Universelle—in their own casino and their synagogues, where they gathered for their prayers and festivals. No doubt it would be in one of these that Elvira Cohen would debut the grosgrain dress that she was trying on when I received my third visit from the unpredictable Rosalinda Fox.

She was waiting in the front room, seemingly troubled by something, standing beside one of the balcony doors. The two clients greeted each other from a distance with remote courtesy: the Englishwoman distracted, the Sephardic girl surprised and curious.

“I’ve got a problem,” she said, approaching me rapidly the moment the click of the door announced that we were alone.

“Tell me. Would you like to sit down?”

“I’d rather have a drink, por favor.”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything but tea, coffee, or a glass of water.”

“Evian?”

I shook my head, thinking I ought to supply myself with a little bar for raising the spirits of my clients at moments of crisis.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered as she sat, languidly. I did the same in the armchair opposite, crossed my legs with careless ease, and waited for her to tell me about the reason for her untimely visit. First she drew out a cigarette from her tortoiseshell case, lit it, and tossed the case carelessly onto the sofa. After the first drag, thick and deep, she realized that she hadn’t offered me one and apologized, making a gesture to rectify her behavior. I stopped her—no, thank you. I was expecting another client shortly and didn’t want the smell of tobacco on my fingers within the intimate space of the fitting room. She closed the cigarette case, and at last she spoke.

“I need an evening gown, a stunning outfit for tonight. An unexpected engagement has come up and I have to go dressed como una princesa.”

“Like a princess?”

“Eso—right. Like a princess. In a manner of speaking, of course. I need something very elegant.”

“I only have your evening dress ready for the second fitting.”

“Could that be ready for tonight?”

“Absolutely impossible.”

“And any other designs?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t have anything I can offer you: I don’t work with ready-to-wear clothes, I make everything to order.”

She took another long drag on her cigarette, but this time she didn’t do it distantly; rather, she watched me fixedly through the smoke. That expression of an unconcerned girl from her previous visits had disappeared from her face, and her gaze was now that of a woman who was anxious but determined not to be defeated.

“I need to find a solution. When I moved from Tangiers to Tetouan, I packed some baúles, some trunks for sending to my mother in England with things I wasn’t going to be using. Accidentally the trunk with all my evening wear also ended up there. I’m waiting for them to be sent back. I’ve just learned that I’ve been invited tonight to a reception hosted by the German consul. Es la primera ocasión, the first time I’ll be seen in public at an event in the company of a, a . . . a person with whom I have a . . . a . . . a very special relationship.”

She was speaking quickly but carefully, making an effort for me to understand everything she was saying in that attempted Spanish of hers, which, because of her nerves, sounded more Portuguese influenced and more peppered with words from her own English language than at either of our previous meetings.

“Bueno, it is very important for this person and for me that I make a good impression on the members of the German colony in Tetouan. Hasta ahora, so far, Mrs. Langenheim has helped me to meet some of them because she is half English, but tonight, esta noite, it’s the first time I will appear in public with this person openly together and that’s why I need to go extremely bien vestida, very, very well dressed, and . . . and—”

I interrupted her; there was no need for her to keep exercising her Spanish so much to no end.

“I’m so sorry, I really am. I’d love to be able to help you, but it really is impossible. As I’ve just said, I don’t have anything ready in my studio and I cannot finish your dress in just a few hours: I’ll need at least three or four days for it.”

She put out her cigarette stub in silence, lost in thought. She bit her lip and paused for a few seconds before looking up and resuming her assault with a question that was quite clearly uncomfortable.

“Perhaps you might be able to lend me one of your own evening outfits?”

I shook my head while I tried to come up with some plausible excuse to hide the pitiful fact that in reality I didn’t have any.

“I don’t think so. All my clothes stayed behind in Madrid when the war broke out, and I’ve been unable to retrieve them. All I have here are a few everyday clothes, nothing for the evenings. I don’t have much of a social life, you understand? My fiancé is in Argentina, and I—”

To my great relief she interrupted me at once.

“Ya veo. I see.”

We sat in silence for a few endless seconds, each hidden in her discomfort, attention focused on opposite ends of the room. One toward the balcony doors; the other toward the archway separating the living room from the entrance hall. She finally broke the tension.

“Creo que—tengo que irme. I think I must leave now.”

“I’m sorry, please believe me. If we’d had just a little more time . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence, realizing at once there was no point in dwelling upon what couldn’t be fixed. I tried to change the subject, distract her attention from the sad reality that she was looking forward to a long disastrous night with the man with whom she was no doubt in love. I was still intrigued by the life of this woman who at other times had been so confident and graceful and who, at this moment, was pensively gathering up her things and heading for the door.

“Tomorrow everything will be ready for the second fitting, all right?” I said, as a rather unhelpful solace.

She smiled vaguely and went out without saying another word. I was left alone, standing there immobile, partly annoyed at my inability to help a client in trouble and partly still intrigued by the strange way in which Rosalinda Fox’s life was taking shape before my eyes: a globe-trotting young mother who lost trunks filled with eveningwear in the same way that one might forget one’s purse hastily on a park bench or café table.

I leaned out onto the balcony half hidden by the shutters and watched as she arrived at the street. She made her way to a bright red automobile parked opposite my front door. I assumed there must have been someone waiting for her, perhaps the man she was so eager to please that night. I couldn’t help my curiosity and I tried to make out a face, plotting out imaginary scenarios in my mind. I assumed he was German; perhaps that was why she so longed to create a good impression among his compatriots. I assumed him to be young, attractive, a bon vivant, worldly and confident like her. I barely had time to develop my fantasies because when she reached the car and opened the right-hand door—the one I supposed to be the passenger seat—I saw the steering wheel and realized she would be the one driving. There was no one waiting for her in that English car: she started it up and she left, as alone as she had arrived. Without a man, without a dress for that night, and, most likely, with no hope of finding any solution over the course of the afternoon.

As I tried to get the bad taste from that meeting out of my mouth, I set about reestablishing order among the objects that Rosalinda’s presence had altered. I picked up the ashtray, blew off the bits of ash that had fallen onto the table, straightened a corner of the rug with the tip of my shoe, plumped up the cushions on the sofa, and began rearranging the magazines she’d leafed through while I finished attending to Elvirita Cohen. I was about to close the copy of Harper’s Bazaar that was lying open at an advertisement for Helena Rubenstein lipsticks when I recognized the photograph of a design that looked vaguely familiar. A thousand memories of a different time flocked back to my mind like birds. Without being completely conscious of what I was doing, I shouted Jamila’s name as loudly as I could. A mad dash brought her to the living room in a heartbeat.

“Go, quick as you can, to Frau Langenheim’s house and ask her to find Señora Fox. She has to come see me immediately; tell her it’s a matter of the greatest urgency.”