The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Nineteen

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Things returned to normal the following day. In the middle of the afternoon someone rang the doorbell; this was strange, as I hadn’t arranged any appointments. It was Félix. Without a word he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. His behavior surprised me: he never turned up at my house until well into the night. Once he’d escaped from his mother’s indiscreet stares through the spyhole, he spoke quickly, and teasingly.

“Well now, girl, how well we’ve been doing!”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, surprised.

“Because of the heavenly woman I’ve just passed in the doorway.”

“Rosalinda Fox? She came for a fitting. And this morning she also sent me a bouquet of flowers as a thank-you. She was the one I helped out of that sticky situation yesterday.”

“Don’t tell me the skinny blonde I’ve just seen was the one with the Delphos?”

“That was her.”

It took him a few seconds to savor what he had just heard. Then he went on with just a hint of mockery in his voice.

“My, how very interesting. You’ve been able to solve a problem for a woman who is very special, ever so special.”

“Special in what way?”

“Special, my dear, in that your client is probably the woman with the greatest power to resolve any matter in the Protectorate. Apart from issues relating to sewing, of course, which is what she has you for, the empress of forgery.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Félix.”

“Are you telling me you don’t know who Rosalinda Fox is?”

“An Englishwoman who’s spent most of her life in India and has a five-year-old son.”

“And a lover.”

“A German.”

“You’re cold, cold . . .”

“He’s not German?”

“No, my dear. You’re very wrong, ever so wrong.”

“How do you know?”

He gave an evil smile.

“Because everyone in Tetouan knows it. Her lover is someone else.”

“Who?”

“Someone important.”

“Who?” I said again, tugging at his sleeve, unable to contain my curiosity.

He gave another mischievous smile and covered his mouth theatrically as though wanting to divulge a great secret. He whispered in my ear, slowly.

“Your friend is the beloved of the high commissioner.”

“Commissioner Vázquez?” I asked in disbelief.

He replied to my suggestion first with a laugh and then an explanation.

“No, you lunatic, no—Claudio Vázquez just deals with the police, keeping the local delinquents in check, not to mention the brainless troop he has in his command. I very much doubt he has free time for extramarital affairs, or at least not to have a regular little friend he puts in a villa with a pool on the Paseo de las Palmeras. Your client, sweetheart, is the lover of Lieutenant Colonel Juan Luis Beigbeder y Atienza, Spain’s high commissioner in Morocco and governor general of the Spanish enclaves. The most important military and administrative post in the whole Protectorate, to be quite clear.”

“Félix, are you sure?” I murmured.

“Let my mother live to eighty fit as a fiddle if I’m lying to you. No one knows how long they’ve been together, she’s been in Tetouan a little over a month: enough, in any case, for everyone to know who she is and what’s going on between them. He’s been high commissioner, officially named by the government in Burgos since not that long ago, though he’s been acting high commissioner since practically the beginning of the war. They say Franco’s delighted with him because he’s endlessly recruiting warlike Moorish boys for him, to send to the front.”

Not in my most elaborate fantasy could I have imagined Rosalinda Fox as the lover of a lieutenant colonel in the Nationalist faction.

“What’s he like?”

The curiosity in my voice made him laugh again delightedly.

“Beigbeder? You don’t know him? The truth is, he hasn’t been seen as much lately—he must spend most of his time shut away in the High Commission—but in the past when he was undersecretary for Indigenous Affairs you could have seen him out on the street at any time. Back then, of course, he could go about unnoticed: he was just a serious, anonymous officer with barely any social life. He was almost always out on his own and didn’t usually attend the soirées at the Hípica Club, the Hotel Nacional, or the Salón Marfil. And he didn’t spend his whole life playing cards like the laid-back Colonel Sáenz de Buruaga, who on the day of the uprising even gave the first orders from the casino terrace. A discreet sort, Beigbeder, rather solitary even.”

“Attractive?”

“Of course he doesn’t do anything for me, but still he does seem to have his appeal to you people—you’re ever so strange, you women.”

“Describe him to me.”

“Tall, thin, stern looking. Dark, his hair combed back. With round glasses, mustache, something intellectual about him. In spite of his post and the way times are right now, he usually goes about dressed in civvies, with exceptionally boring dark suits.”

“Married?”

“Probably, though it would seem that while he’s been here he’s always lived alone. But it’s not unusual among soldiers that they don’t take their families everywhere they go.”

“Age?”

“Old enough to be her father.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, that’s your problem. If you worked less and went out more, I’m sure you’d run into him sooner or later and then you’d be able to confirm what I’m telling you with your own eyes. He still goes for a walk from time to time, though now he’s always accompanied by a couple of escorts. They say he’s an extremely cultured gentleman who speaks several languages and has lived outside Spain for many years; completely different to begin with from the national heroes we’re used to having in these parts, though of course his position indicates that he is on their side. Perhaps he and your client met abroad somewhere; maybe she’ll explain it to you sometime and then you will tell me. You know how fascinated I am by these romantic affaires. Well, I’ll leave you, girl—I’m taking the witch to the cinema. A double bill: Hermana San Sulpicio and Don Quintin the Bitter; I’ve really got quite an afternoon of glamour awaiting me. With the chaos of this war, we haven’t had a single decent film come over here in nearly a year. How I’d love to see a good American musical. You remember Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Top Hat? ‘I just got an invitation through the mails: “Your presence requested this evening, it’s formal—top hat, white tie, and tails.’ ”

He went out crooning away to himself, and I shut the door behind him. This time it wasn’t his mother watching indiscreetly through the peephole, but me. I observed him, as with that little tune still in his mouth he tinklingly drew his keys from his pocket, found his latchkey, and inserted it into the lock. When he disappeared I went back into the workshop and resumed my work, still struggling to believe what I had just heard. I tried to keep working for a while longer but could feel myself lacking the will. Or the strength. Or both. I remembered the turbulent activity of the previous day and decided to allow myself the rest of the afternoon off. I considered copying Félix and his mother and going to the cinema, since I deserved a bit of distraction. With that in mind I left the house, but inexplicably my steps took me in a different direction, leading me to the Plaza de España instead.

I was met by the beds of flowers and the palm trees, the colored pebbles on the ground and the white buildings surrounding the square. The stone benches, as on any other afternoon, were filled with couples and groups of girls. A pleasant smell of savories was wafting from the little cafés nearby. I crossed the square toward the High Commission, which I’d seen so many times since my arrival and which had aroused so little curiosity in me before now. Very close to the caliph’s palace, the large white colonial-style building surrounded by leafy gardens housed the main seat of the Spanish administration. Through the vegetation it was possible to make out the two main stories and a third shorter one, the turrets at the corners, the green shutters and the orange tiles that finished it off. Imposing-looking Arab soldiers, stoic under their turbans and broad cloaks, stood guard at the large iron gate. Imperious high-ranking officers of the Spanish army in Africa wearing chickpea-colored uniforms went in and out of a small side door, looking impeccable in their breeches and well-shined boots. There were also native soldiers swarming around, moving from one side to the other, with European-style military jackets, wide trousers, and some kind of brownish bands around their calves. The bicolor national flag was waving against a blue sky that already seemed to announce the arrival of summer. I stood there watching that incessant movement of men in uniform until I noticed how many stares my immobility was attracting. Flustered and uncomfortable, I turned and went back to the square. What was I looking for outside the High Commission, what was I expecting to find, why had I gone there? No reason, probably; at least, no concrete reason except to get a closer look at the habitat of my client’s unexpected lover.