The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Two

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I’m not going to marry Ignacio, Mother.”

She was trying to thread a needle and my words made her freeze, the thread held between her fingers.

“What are you saying, girl?” she whispered. Her voice seemed to emerge broken from her throat, laden with confusion and disbelief.

“That I’m leaving him, Mother. That I’ve fallen in love with another man.”

She scolded me with the bluntest reproaches she could bring herself to utter, cried out to heaven, begging God to intercede, appealing to the whole calendar of saints, summoning dozens of arguments to persuade me to retract my intentions. When it became clear that none of it was doing any good, she sat down in the rocking chair next to my grandfather’s, covered her face, and began to cry.

I bore the moment with a feigned fortitude, trying to hide the nerves that lay behind the bluntness of my words. I was afraid of my mother’s reaction: Ignacio had come to be the son she’d never had, the presence that filled the masculine gap in our little family. They talked to each other, they understood each other, they got along. My mother made the stews he liked, shined his shoes, and turned his jackets inside out when the attrition of time had begun to rob them of their luster. He, in turn, complimented her when he saw her in her finery for Sunday Mass, brought her egg-yolk sweets, and—half in jest and half seriously—sometimes told her that she was more beautiful than I.

I was aware that my daring would bring down all that comfortable domesticity. I knew that it would topple the scaffolding of more lives than just my own, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. My decision was firm as a post: there would be no wedding and no civil service exams; I wouldn’t learn to type on the little table and never would I share children, bed, or joys with Ignacio. I was going to leave him, and the strength of a gale would not be enough to curtail my resolve.


The Hispano-Olivetti storefront had two large display windows that showed their products off to passersby with proud splendor. Between the two of them was a glass door, with a bar of burnished bronze crossing it diagonally. Ignacio pushed it and we went in. The tinkling of a little bell announced our arrival, but no one came out to meet us right away. We stopped there, inhibited for a couple of minutes, looking at everything displayed with such reverence, not daring even to brush against the pieces of polished wood furniture where those typewriting marvels rested, one of which we were about to select as the one most suited to our plans. At the back of the spacious room devoted to the displays, there was apparently an office. From it came men’s voices.

We didn’t have to wait much longer. The voices knew that there were customers, and one of them—housed in a rotund body, darkly dressed—approached us. As soon as the affable clerk greeted us, asking what we were interested in, Ignacio began to talk, describing what he wanted, requesting information and advice. Mustering all his professionalism, the clerk proceeded to enumerate the features of each machine on display in rigorous detail, with such monotonous technical precision that after twenty minutes I was ready to fall asleep from boredom. Ignacio, meanwhile, absorbed the information through all his senses, indifferent to me and to anything other than gauging what was being offered to him. I decided to move away from them, totally uninterested. Whatever Ignacio chose would be a good choice. I couldn’t care less about keys, carriage return levers, or margin bells.

So I dedicated myself to walking through the other parts of the display in search of something with which to appease my boredom. I stared at the big advertising posters on the walls proclaiming the store’s products with colored illustrations and words in languages I did not understand. Then I approached the windows and watched pedestrians hurrying past along the street. After a while I returned unwillingly to the back of the store.

A big cupboard with mirrored doors ran along part of one wall. I considered my reflection in it, noticing that a couple of strands had come loose from the bun in my hair. After attending to that I took advantage of the opportunity to pinch my cheeks and give my bored face a little color. Then I examined my attire at leisure. I had made myself get into my best dress; after all, this purchase was supposed to be a special occasion for us. I smoothed out my stockings, upward from my ankles; slowly and deliberately I adjusted the dress on my hips, at the waistline and collar. I retouched my hair again and looked at myself from the front and the side, calmly observing the copy of myself that the mirror glass returned to me. I struck poses, made a couple of dance steps, and laughed. When I tired of the sight, I continued wandering around the room, killing time as I ran my hand slowly over the surfaces, snaking languidly around the pieces of furniture. I barely paid any attention to what had really brought us there; to me there was nothing to distinguish between those machines apart from their size. There were big, solid ones, yet there were small ones, too; some seemed light, others heavy, but to my eyes they were no more than a mass of dark unwieldy contraptions unable to generate the slightest charm. I positioned myself reluctantly in front of one of them, brought my index finger toward the keys, and pretended to press the letters closest to me. The s, the i, the r, the a. “Si-ra,” I repeated in a whisper.

“Lovely name.”

The man’s voice came from just behind me, so close that I could almost feel his breath on my skin. A shudder ran up my spine and I turned around, startled.

“Ramiro Arribas,” he said, holding out his hand. It took me a moment to react, perhaps because I wasn’t used to anyone greeting me so formally, perhaps because I had not yet managed to absorb the impact this unexpected presence had on me.

Who was this man, where had he come from? He clarified it himself, his eyes still fixed on mine.

“I am the manager of the establishment. I’m sorry not to have attended to you earlier; I was trying to place a call.”

And watching you through the blinds that separate the office from the showroom, he should have added. He didn’t say it, but he let it be guessed at. I intuited it from the depths of his gaze, the sonority of his voice, from the fact that he had approached me rather than Ignacio and the length of time he held my hand. I knew that he had been watching me, considering my erratic wanderings around his establishment. He had seen me arranging myself in front of the mirrored cupboard: readjusting my hair, conforming the lines of the dress to my shape, and fixing my stockings by running my hands up my legs. Perched in the shelter of his office, he had absorbed the outlines of my body and the slow cadence of each of my movements. He had appraised me, calibrated the shapes of my silhouette and the lines of my face. He had studied me with the sure eye of someone who knows exactly what he likes and is used to getting what he wants with the immediacy that his desires dictate. And he resolved to show this to me. I had never seen this before in any other man; I had never believed myself capable of awaking such a desire in anyone. But just as animals scent food or danger, with the same primal instinct I knew that Ramiro Arribas, like a wolf, had decided to come for me.

“Is that your husband?” he said, gesturing toward Ignacio.

“My fiancé,” I managed to answer.

Perhaps it was only my imagination, but I thought I sensed the trace of a satisfied smile at the corners of his lips.

“Perfect. Please, come with me.”

He made way for me, and as he did, he positioned his hand gently at my waist as though it had been waiting to be there its whole life. He greeted Ignacio pleasantly, dispatched the salesclerk to the office, and took up the reins of the matter with the ease of someone who gives a clap and makes pigeons take flight. He was like a conjuror combed with brilliantine, the features of his face marked with angular lines, a broad smile, a powerful neck, and a bearing so imposing, so manly and decisive, that beside him my poor Ignacio looked like he was a century away from reaching manhood.

He learned that the typewriter we were planning to buy would be for teaching me to type, and he praised the idea as though it were a matter of great genius. Ignacio saw him as a competent professional who offered technical details and beneficial payment options. For me he was something more: a tremor, a magnet, a certainty.

We took a while longer to finalize the negotiations. Over the course of that time the signals coming from Ramiro Arribas didn’t stop for a single second. An unexpected, glancing touch, a joke, a smile; double entendres and looks that pierced the depths of my being. Ignacio, self-absorbed and unaware of what was happening before his very eyes, finally decided on the portable Lettera 35, a machine with round white keys on which the letters of the alphabet were set with such elegance that they seemed to be carved with a chisel.

“Superb decision,” the manager concluded, praising Ignacio’s good sense. As though he had been the master of his own free will and hadn’t been manipulated with the great salesman’s wiles to buy that particular model. “The best choice for slender fingers like those of your fiancée. Do please allow me, miss, to see them.”

I quickly sought Ignacio’s gaze to gain his consent, but I didn’t find it: he had gone back to focusing on the typewriter. I held my hand out shyly. Faced with my fiancé’s innocent passivity, Ramiro Arribas stroked my hand slowly and shamelessly, finger to finger, with a sensuality that gave me goose bumps and made my legs shake like leaves in a summer breeze. He only let go when Ignacio looked away from the Lettera 35 and asked for instructions on completing the purchase. They agreed that we’d leave a deposit of 50 percent that afternoon and make the balance of the payment the following day.

“When can we take it away?” Ignacio asked.

Ramiro Arribas consulted his watch.

“The boy from the warehouse is doing a few errands and won’t be coming back this afternoon. I fear it won’t be possible to get your model till tomorrow.”

“And this one? We can’t keep this one?” Ignacio insisted, keen to close the negotiations as soon as possible. Once the model had been chosen, everything else seemed to him to be bothersome procedures that he wanted to eliminate swiftly.

“Please, don’t even suggest such a thing. I can’t allow Miss Sira to use a typewriter that other customers have been fiddling with. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll have a new one ready, with its own case and packaging. If you let me have your address,” he said, looking at me, “I’ll take charge personally of getting one to your house before noon.”

“We’ll come and collect it ourselves,” I interrupted. I could sense that the man was capable of anything, and a wave of terror made me shudder to think that he might show up before my mother, asking for me.

“I can’t come over till the evening, I have to work,” said Ignacio. As he spoke, an invisible rope seemed to tie itself slowly around his neck, ready to hang him. Ramiro barely had to take the trouble to pull at it just a little.

“And what about you, miss?”

“I don’t work,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

“You could arrange to make the payment, then?” he suggested casually.

I couldn’t find the words to say no, and Ignacio didn’t even sense how that simple-seeming proposal was looming over us. Ramiro Arribas accompanied us to the door and bid us farewell warmly, as though we were the best customers in the shop’s history. With his left hand he vigorously patted my fiancé’s back, with his right he shook mine once again. And he had words for us both.

“You’ve made a superb choice in coming to Casa Hispano-Olivetti, Ignacio, believe me. I assure you, you won’t forget this day for a long time. And you, Sira, please come back at about eleven o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you.”

I spent the night tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. It was madness, and I still had time to get out of it. All I had to do was to decide not to go back to the shop. I could stay home with my mother, help her to beat the mattresses and scrub the floor with linseed oil, chat with the women who lived next door on the square, then make my way toward the Cebada market for a quarter pound of chickpeas or a piece of cod. I could wait for Ignacio to return home from the ministry and make excuses for my failure to fulfill my task with any simple lie: that my head hurt, that I thought it was going to rain. I could lie down awhile after lunch, feigning some general malaise. And then Ignacio would go alone, he would complete the payment to the manager, pick up the typewriter, and it would all be over. We would never hear of Ramiro Arribas again, he’d never again cross our path. Bit by bit his name would sink into oblivion and we’d move ahead with our little everyday lives. As though he’d never caressed my hands, desire just there below the surface; as though he’d never consumed me with his eyes from behind the blinds. It was that easy, that simple. And I knew it.

I knew it, but I pretended not to know. The next day I waited for my mother to go out on her errands. I didn’t want her to see me getting myself ready: she would have suspected I was up to something strange if she’d seen me all done up so early in the morning. As soon as I’d heard the door close behind her, I began hastily to get myself together. I filled a basin to wash myself, I sprinkled myself with lavender water, heated the curling tongs on the stove, ironed my only silk blouse, and removed my stockings from the line where they’d spent the night drying in the night dew. They were the same ones from the previous day: I had no others. I forced myself to calm down and put them on carefully, so that I wouldn’t cause a run. And each of those mechanical movements, repeated a thousand times in the past, for the first time had a defined recipient, an objective and a goal: Ramiro Arribas. It was for him that I was dressing and perfuming myself, for him to see me, for him to smell me, for him to touch me lightly once again and once again lose himself in my eyes. It was for him that I decided to leave my hair loose, falling lustrous halfway down my back. For him I tightened my waist, squeezing the belt hard over my skirt till I could scarcely breathe. For him: all just for him.

I made my way along the streets with determination, prompting eager glances and impudent compliments. I forced myself not to think: I avoided calculating the significance of my actions and didn’t want to stop and guess whether that trajectory was taking me to the threshold of paradise or directly to the slaughterhouse. I went down the Costanilla de San Andrés, crossed the Plaza de los Carros, and down Cava Baja headed for the Plaza Mayor. In twenty minutes I was at the Puerta del Sol; in less than half an hour I reached my destination.

Ramiro was waiting for me. He quickly sensed my silhouette at the door and broke off the conversation he was holding with another employee and headed toward me, collecting his hat and a raincoat on his way. When he was standing there beside me I wanted to tell him I had the money in my pocket, that Ignacio sent his regards, that I would perhaps start learning to type that very afternoon. He didn’t let me. He didn’t even greet me. He only smiled, holding a cigarette in his mouth, gently grazed his hand over the small of my back, and said, “Let’s go.” And with him I went.

The chosen place could not have been more innocent: he took me to the Café Suizo. Having confirmed with relief that our surroundings were safe, I believed that I might still be able to effect my salvation. I even thought—as he looked for a table and invited me to sit down—that perhaps this meeting had no more duplicity to it than the simple display of attentiveness to a client. I even began to suspect that all that brazen flirtation might have been nothing more than an excess of fantasy on my part. But that was not how it was. In spite of the irreproachable surroundings, our second meeting brought me back to the edge of the abyss.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for a single minute since you left yesterday,” he whispered in my ear the moment we had settled.

I felt unable to reply. The words couldn’t reach my lips: like sugar in water, they dissolved in some uncertain place in my brain. He took my hand again and caressed it just as he had done the previous afternoon, without taking his eyes off it.

“You have calluses on your hands—tell me, what have these fingers been doing before they came to me?”

His voice still sounded close and sensual, quite apart from the noises that surrounded us: the clink of the glass and crockery against the marble of the tabletops, the buzz of morning conversations, and the voices of waiters placing orders at the counter.

“Sewing,” I whispered, not lifting my eyes from my lap.

“So you’re a seamstress?”

“I was. Not anymore.” I lifted my gaze, finally. “There hasn’t been much work lately,” I added.

“Which is why you want to learn to use a typewriter.”

He spoke with complicity, familiarly, as though he knew me: as though his soul and mine had been waiting for each other since the beginning of time.

“My fiancé thought about enrolling me to take some examinations so that I could become a civil servant like him,” I said with a touch of shame.

The arrival of the refreshments halted our conversation. For me, a cup of hot chocolate. For Ramiro, coffee, black as night. I took advantage of the pause to look at him while he exchanged a few phrases with the waiter. He was wearing a different suit than on the previous day, another impeccable shirt. He had elegant manners, and at the same time, within that refinement that was so alien to the men who surrounded me, he oozed masculinity from every pore of his body: as he smoked, as he adjusted the knot of his tie, as he took his wallet from his pocket or brought the cup to his lips.

“And why would a woman like you want to spend her life in a ministry, if that’s not too forward a question?” he asked after taking his first sip of coffee.

I shrugged. “So we can have a better life, I guess.”

Again he came slowly closer to me, again his hot voice was in my ear: “Do you really want to start living better, Sira?”

I took refuge in a sip of chocolate to avoid answering.

“You’ve got a smudge; let me wipe it,” he said.

And then he brought his hand to my face and opened it over the contour of my jaw, adjusting it to my bones as though this were the mold from which I had once been formed. Then he put his thumb in the place where the smudge supposedly was, close to where my lips met. He caressed me smoothly, slowly. I let him do it: a mixture of terror and pleasure prevented me from moving.

“You’ve got some here, too,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, moving his finger.

Its destination was one end of my lower lip. He repeated the caress. More slowly, more tenderly. A shiver ran up my spine; my fingers gripped the velvet of the seat.

“And here, too,” he said again. Then he caressed my whole mouth, millimeter by millimeter, from one end to the other, rhythmically, slowly, more slowly. I was about to sink into a well of something soft that I could not define. I didn’t care if the whole thing was a lie and there was no trace of chocolate on my lips. I didn’t care that at the next table three venerable old men suspended their chatter to contemplate the scene, burning with desire, furiously wishing they were thirty years younger.

Then a noisy group of students trooped into the café, and their racket and laughter destroyed the magic of the moment like someone bursting a soap bubble. And right away, as though awaking from a dream, I became aware of several things at once: that the ground hadn’t melted but was still solid beneath my feet, that the finger of a man I didn’t know was about to go into my mouth, that an eager hand was crawling along my left thigh, and that I was a heartbeat away from throwing myself headfirst off a precipice. My clarity of thought now recovered, I jumped to my feet. Rushing to take up my bag, I knocked over a glass of water that the waiter had brought with my chocolate.

“Here’s the money for the typewriter. At the end of the afternoon my fiancé will come by to collect it,” I said, leaving the bundle of notes on the marble.

He held me by the wrist.

“Don’t go, Sira; don’t be angry with me.”

I tugged myself free. I didn’t look at him or say good-bye; I just turned and with forced dignity began to make my way to the door. It was only then that I noticed I’d spilled the water on myself and that my left foot was soaked.

He didn’t follow me; he probably sensed it wouldn’t do him any good. He just stayed sitting there, and as I moved away he launched his final dart at my back.

“Come back another day. You know where to find me now.”

I pretended not to hear him. I picked up my pace through the crowd of students and blended into the hubbub of the street.


Eight times I went to bed hoping that when morning came things would be different, and the eight mornings that followed I awoke with the same obsession in my head: Ramiro Arribas. His memory assaulted me at every turn, and I couldn’t keep him from my thoughts for a single minute: making the bed, blowing my nose, as I peeled an orange or went down the stairs one by one with his face engraved on my retina.

Meanwhile, Ignacio and my mother worked away at the plans for the wedding, but they were incapable of making me share their enthusiasm. Nothing pleased me, nothing could raise the slightest interest in me. It must be nerves, they thought. I struggled, meanwhile, to get Ramiro out of my head, not to recall his voice in my ear, his finger caressing my mouth, his hand running up my thigh, and the last words he fixed in my eardrums when I turned my back on him in the café, convinced that by walking away I’d be putting an end to the madness. Come back another day, Sira. Come back.

I fought with all my strength to resist. I fought, and I lost. There was nothing I could do to impose the least rationality on the uncontrolled attraction that man had made me feel. However much I looked around me, I was unable to find the resources, the strength, anything to cling to in order to stop myself from being dragged away. Neither the husband-to-be whom I planned to marry in less than a month, nor the upright mother who had struggled so hard to bring me up to be a decent, responsible woman. I wasn’t even stopped by the uncertainty of barely knowing who that stranger was and what destiny had in store for me at his side.

Nine days after my first visit to the Casa Hispano-Olivetti, I returned. Like the previous times, I was once again greeted by the tinkling of the bell over the door. No fat salesman came to greet me, no shop boy, no other employee. Only Ramiro.

I approached, trying to make my steps sound firm; I had my words ready. I wasn’t able to say them. He didn’t let me. As soon as he had me within his reach he put his hand to the back of my neck and planted on my mouth a kiss so intense, so carnal and prolonged that my body was startled by it, ready to melt and be transformed into a puddle of honey.

Ramiro Arribas was thirty-four years old, had a past filled with comings and goings and a capacity for seduction so powerful that not even a concrete wall could have contained it. First came attraction, doubt, and anxiety. Then passion, and the abyss. I drank in the air he breathed and I walked beside him, floating six inches above the cobblestones. The rivers could burst their banks, the buildings could crumble, and the streets could be wiped off the maps; the heavens could meet the earth and the whole universe could collapse at my feet, and I could bear it if Ramiro were there.

Ignacio and my mother began to suspect that something unusual was happening to me, something more than the simple tension brought about by the imminent marriage. They were not, however, able to figure out the reason for my excitement, nor did they find any cause to justify the excessive secrecy with which I moved at all hours, my erratic departures, and the hysterical laughter I occasionally found myself unable to contain. I managed to maintain the equilibrium of that double life for just a few days, just enough to see how the scales tipped with every passing minute, how Ignacio’s side fell and Ramiro’s rose. In less than a week I knew that I had to cut myself off from everything and launch myself into the void. The moment had come for me to take a scythe to my past. To level it to the ground.

Ignacio arrived at our house in the evening.

“Wait for me in the square,” I whispered, opening the door just a few inches.

My mother had learned about my decision at lunchtime; I couldn’t let him go on any longer without knowing. I went down five minutes later, my lips painted, my new bag in one hand and the Lettera 35 in the other. He was waiting for me on the usual bench, on that bit of cold stone where we’d spent so many hours planning a common future that would never come.

“You’re going off with someone else, aren’t you?” he asked when I sat down beside him. He didn’t look at me; he just kept his eyes fixed on the ground, on the dusty earth that the tip of his shoe was busy turning up.

I just nodded. A round, wordless yes. Who is it? he asked. I told him. Around us the usual noises continued: children, dogs, and bicycle bells; the tolling of San Andrés calling to last Mass, the wheels of the carts over the cobbles, the tired mules heading for the end of the day. Ignacio took a while to speak again. He must have sensed such determination, such certainty in my decision that he didn’t even let me see his confusion. He didn’t make a scene, nor did he demand explanations. He only spoke one more sentence, slowly, as though allowing it to slip out.

“He will never love you as much as I do.”

And then he stood up, took up the typewriter, and began to walk with it toward the void. I watched his back moving away, walking beneath the murky light of the street lamps, perhaps suppressing an urge to dash the machine against the ground.

I kept my eyes fixed on him, watched as he left the square until his body faded into the distance, until I could no longer make him out in the autumn evening. And I would have liked to remain there crying at his absence, regretting that farewell that was so brief and so sad, blaming myself for having put an end to our hopeful plan for the future. But I couldn’t. I didn’t shed a single tear, didn’t rain down a single reproach upon myself. Just a minute after his presence had faded, I, too, got up from the bench and walked away. I left behind my neighborhood, my people, my little world forever. My whole past remained there as I set out on a new stage of my life, a life that seemed luminous and whose immediate present could imagine no greater glory than that of Ramiro’s two arms giving me shelter.