The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Twenty-Four

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I suppose my relationship with Juan Luis must have come as something of a surprise to a lot of people, but to me it felt as though it were written in the stars from the beginning of time.”

Among the many people to whom the couple seemed entirely inconceivable was, of course, myself. I found it enormously difficult to imagine the woman I had in front of me—with her radiant charm, her worldly airs, and her great frivolity—in a solid romantic relationship with a sober, high-ranking officer, let alone one twice her age.

Rosalinda and I were eating fish and drinking white wine on a restaurant terrace while the air from the nearby sea made the blue-and-white striped awnings flutter above our heads, bringing with it the scent of saltpeter and sad associations that I forced myself to drive away, focusing my attention back on Rosalinda’s conversation. She seemed to have an enormous desire to talk about her relationship with the high commissioner, to share a completely personal version of the facts, a world away from the distorted whispers that she knew were running from mouth to mouth in Tangiers and Tetouan. But why tell me, someone she barely knew? Despite my disguise as a chic dressmaker, our origins could not have been more different, nor our current lives. She came from a cosmopolitan world, a world of comfort and leisure; I was no more than a worker, the daughter of a humble single mother, raised in a traditional old neighborhood in Madrid. She was living a passionate affair with a distinguished senior officer from the army that had incited the war that was devastating my country; I, meanwhile, worked day and night just to get by. But regardless, she’d decided to confide in me. Perhaps because she thought it might be one way of paying me back for the favor I did her with the Delphos. Perhaps because she thought that, being an independent woman of the same age, I’d be able to understand her better. Or perhaps simply because she felt lonely and had a desperate need to pour her heart out to someone. And that someone, on that summer midday in that city on the African coast, turned out to be me.

“Before his death in that tragic accident, Sanjurjo had insisted that once I was settled in Tangiers I should go and look up his friend Juan Luis Beigbeder in Tetouan; he kept referring to our meeting at the Adlon in Berlin and saying how pleased he’d be to see me de nuevo. And, la verdad, the truth is, I also wanted to meet him again: he’d struck me as a fascinating man, so interesting, so cultured, so, so . . . such a real Spanish gentleman. And so once I’d been settled for a few months I decided the time had come for me to visit the capital of the Protectorate to call on him. By then, claro—obviously—things had changed: he was no longer in his administrative role in Indigenous Affairs, but occupying the senior post in the High Commission. And I turned up there in my Austin 7. Ay, Dios! How will I ever forget that day? I arrived in Tetouan and the first thing I did was to go see the English consul, Monck-Mason—you do know him, don’t you? I call him ‘Old Monkey’—he’s such a dreadfully boring man, pobrecito.”

I took advantage of the fact that at that moment I was bringing my wineglass to my mouth and made an imprecise gesture. I didn’t know this Monck-Mason, I’d only heard of him occasionally from my clients, but I didn’t acknowledge this in front of Rosalinda.

“When I told him I meant to visit Beigbeder, the consul was stunned. As you know, unlike the Germans and the Italians, His Majesty’s Government—our government—has almost no contact with the Spanish authorities from Franco’s Nationalist side because they still recognize the Republican regime in Madrid as the legitimate one, so Monck-Mason thought my visit to Juan Luis might turn out to be very useful for British interests. Anyway, before noon I headed for the High Commission in my car, accompanied only by Joker, my dog. At the entrance I showed the letter of introduction that Sanjurjo had given me before his death, and someone led me through to Juan Luis’s private secretary, along corridors filled with soldiers and spittoons—qué asco! Disgusting. Jiménez Muro, his secretary, took me straight into the office. Bearing in mind the war and his position, I imagined I would find the new high commissioner dressed in an imposing uniform covered with medals and decorations, but no, no, quite the contrary. Just as on that night in Berlin, Juan Luis was wearing a simple dark suit that made him look like anything but a rebel soldier. He was delighted by my visit: he turned out to be enchanting, we chatted, and he invited me to lunch, but I’d already accepted a prior invitation from Monck-Mason, so we arranged to meet the following day.”

Bit by bit the tables around us were filling up. Rosalinda would occasionally greet someone with a simple gesture or a quick smile, without showing much interest or interrupting her narrative about those first meetings with Beigbeder. I was also able to recognize the odd familiar face, people I’d met through Ramiro and whom I chose not to acknowledge. So the two of us remained focused on each other: she talking, me listening, both of us eating our fish, drinking cold wine, and ignoring the noise of the world around us.

“The following day I arrived at the High Commission expecting to find some sort of ceremonial meal as befit the setting: a big table, formality, surrounded by waiters . . . But Juan Luis had arranged for them to prepare us a simple table for two beside a window open to the garden. It was an inolvidable lunch, unforgettable, during which he spoke and spoke and spoke nonstop about Morocco, about his beloved Morocco, as he calls it. About its magic, its secrets, its fascinating culture. After lunch he decided to show me some of the area surrounding Tetouan—qué lindo! We went out in his official car—imagine!—followed by a procession of drivers and assistants, all so embarrassing! Pues, anyway, we ended up at the beach, sitting on the shore while the others waited on the road, can you believe it?”

She laughed, and I smiled. The situation she was describing really was peculiar: the most powerful figure in the Protectorate and a recently arrived foreigner who could have been his daughter, flirting openly by the seaside while the motorized retinue watched them shamelessly from a distance.

“And then he picked up two pebbles, one white, the other black. He put his hands behind his back, then brought them back out, fists closed. Choose, he said. Choose what, I asked. Choose a hand. If it has the black pebble in it, you will leave my life today and I will never see you again. If it’s the white one, that means destiny wants you to stay with me.”

“And it was the white one.”

“It was the white one, indeed,” she confirmed with a radiant smile. “A couple of days later he sent two cars to Tangiers: a Chrysler Royal to transport my things, and for me the Dodge roadster we traveled in today, a gift from the Hassan Bank of Tetouan that Juan Luis had decided would be for me. We haven’t been apart since, except for when his duties require him to travel. At the moment I’m installed with my son Johnny in the house on the Paseo de las Palmeras, in a grand mansion with a bathroom fit for a maharajah, a lavatory like a monarch’s throne, but whose walls are crumbling and which doesn’t even have running water. Juan Luis is living in the High Commission because that’s what his position requires; we didn’t even think about living together, but all the same he has decided that he still isn’t going to hide his relationship with me, even though it might sometimes put him in a rather compromising position.”

“Because he’s married . . . ,” I offered.

She gave a shrug of unconcern and pushed a lock of hair back from her face.

“Oh no, no, that’s not what really matters—I’m married, too; that’s sólo nuestro asunto—it’s only our concern, completely private. The problem is of a more public nature—official, you might say; there are people who think that an Englishwoman could exert influence on him that would be undesirable, and they make their views known to us quite openly.”

“Who thinks that?” She had been speaking to me with such familiarity that without even thinking I felt entitled to ask for clarifications.

“The members of the Nazi colony in the Protectorate. Langenheim and Bernhardt especially. They feel the High Commissioner ought to be gloriously pro-German in every facet of his life: one hundred percent faithful to the Germans, the ones supporting his side in your civil war; the ones who right from the start agreed to make the airplanes and munitions available. In fact, Juan Luis was aware of the trip they took from Tetouan to Germany in those first days to have an audience with Hitler in Bayreuth, where—as he did every year—he was attending the Wagner festival. Pues, anyway, Hitler consulted Admiral Canaris, Canaris recommended that he agree to offer the help that was being requested, and on the same day the Führer ordered the dispatch to Spanish Morocco of everything they needed. If he hadn’t done that, the troops of the Spanish army in Africa wouldn’t have been able to cross the Strait, so the help from Germany really was crucial. Since then the relationship between the two armies has been very close, naturally. But the Nazis in Tetouan feel that my presence and the feelings Juan Luis has for me could lead him to adopt a position that is more pro-British and less faithful to the Germans.”

I recalled Félix’s comments about Frau Langenheim’s husband and his compatriot Bernhardt, his references to that early military help that they had secured in Germany. Apparently it had not only continued but was becoming increasingly well known in the Protectorate. I also remembered Rosalinda’s anxiety to create an impeccable impression during her first formal meeting with the German community on her lover’s arm. I thought I understood then what it was she was telling me, but I played down its importance and tried to reassure her.

“But all of that shouldn’t trouble you too much. He can still be loyal to the Germans while he’s with you, they’re two different things—one is official, one’s personal. I’m sure the people who think that way aren’t right.”

“They are right, of course they are.”

“I don’t understand.”

Quickly she cast her eyes across the half-empty terrace. The wind had stopped, the awnings barely moved. A number of waiters in white jackets and tarbooshes—the red felt Moorish hat—worked in silence shaking napkins and tablecloths into the air. Rosalinda lowered her voice to something close to a whisper—but a whisper that, though quiet, conveyed an unmistakable determination.

“They’re right in their assumptions, because, querida, I have every intention of doing whatever I can to get Juan Luis to establish friendly relations with my compatriots. I can’t bear the idea that your war should end in favor of the Nationalist army and that Germany should end up being the great ally of the Spanish people, and Great Britain, meanwhile, an enemy power. And I’m going to do it for two reasons. The first, simple sentimental patriotism: because I want the country of the man I love to be friends with my own. However, the second reason is a much more pragmatic, objective one: we English don’t trust the Nazis, and things are turning ugly. Maybe it’s a bit risky to talk about another great European war coming, but you never know. And were that to happen, I’d like your country to be on our side.”

I was about to say quite openly that our poor country wasn’t in a position to get involved in any future war, that it had more than enough misfortune with the one it was living through now. That war of ours seemed quite alien to her, however, despite the fact that her lover was significantly involved in one side of it. Eventually I chose to follow her lead, to focus on a future that might never come and not sink into the tragedy of the present. My day had already had a good dose of bitterness, and I preferred to keep it from getting any sadder.

“And how do you mean to do that?” was all I asked.

“Bueno—well—don’t believe for a moment that I’ve got powerful personal contacts in Whitehall, nothing of the kind,” she said with a little laugh. I automatically made a mental note to ask Félix what Whitehall was, but my look of concentration managed to hide my ignorance. She went on. “But you know how these things work: networks of acquaintances, people who can connect you to other people . . . So I thought I might try things with some friends I have here in Tangiers to begin with, Colonel Hal Durand, General Norman Beynon and his wife, Mary, all of whom have excellent contacts in the Foreign Office. At the moment they’re away spending a little time in London, but I’m planning to meet them later on, introduce them to Juan Luis, try to see if they’ll talk and get along.”

“And you think he’ll agree, he’ll let you get involved like that in his official business?”

“Of course, querida,” she said without the slightest trace of doubt, as she tossed another lock of hair away from her left eye with an airy shake of her head. “Juan Luis is a terrifically intelligent man. He knows the Germans very well, he’s lived with them for many years, and he’s afraid that the price that Spain will have to pay for all the help they’ve been receiving will turn out to be too dear. Besides, he has a high opinion of the English because, after all, we’ve rarely lost a war. He’s a soldier and such things are important to him. And above all, and this is the main reason, because Juan Luis adores me. As he tells me every day, he would go down into the fires of hell for his Rosalinda.”

By the time we got up, the tables on the terrace were already set for dinner and the evening shadows were beginning to rise along the adobe walls. Rosalinda insisted on paying for our lunch.

“I’ve finally managed to get my husband to transfer my allowance; do allow me to treat you.”

We strolled to her car and set off back toward Tetouan, barely managing to avoid going over the twelve hours I’d been allowed by Commissioner Vázquez. But the geographical direction wasn’t the only thing we reversed on that journey; we also reversed the trajectory of our conversation. If on the way there and for the rest of the day it had been Rosalinda who’d monopolized the talk, on the way back the moment had come for our roles to be reversed.

“You must think I’m dreadfully boring, always going on about myself and my business. Tell me about yourself. Cuéntame—tell me—how did it go this morning with those things you had to sort out?”

“Badly,” I said, simply.

“Badly?”

“Yes, very, very badly.”

“Lo siento—really, I’m very sorry. Something important?”

I could have answered no. Compared to her own concerns, my problems lacked some of the ingredients necessary to arouse her interest: there were no high-ranking soldiers involved, no consuls or ministers, no political interests, no affairs of state or premonitions of great European wars, nothing remotely related to the sophisticated tempests through which she moved. In the humble territory of my concerns there had been room only for a handful of private miseries that could almost be counted on the fingers of one hand: a love betrayed, a debt to pay and a hotel manager who refused to understand, the daily grind of starting up a business, a homeland drenched in blood to which I couldn’t return, and the yearning for an absent mother. I could have answered no, that my little tragedies weren’t important. I could have kept quiet about my private business, kept it hidden, shared it only with the darkness of my empty house. Yes, I could have. But I didn’t.

“To tell you the truth, it was something very important to me. I want to get my mother out of Madrid and bring her to Morocco, but to do that I need a large sum of money that I don’t have because I first have to put my savings toward meeting another urgent payment. This morning I was hoping to postpone that payment, but I wasn’t able to, so right now I fear that this thing with my mother will be impossible. And the worst is that, according to what people are saying, it’s getting harder and harder to move from one zone to another.”

“Is she alone in Madrid?” she asked with what seemed like an expression of concern.

“Yes, alone. Quite alone. She has nobody but me.”

“And your father?”

“My father—well, it’s a long story, but briefly, they’re not together.”

“I’m so very sorry, Sira, dear. It must be so hard for you knowing that she’s in the Red Zone, exposed to so many things, stuck with all those people . . .”

I looked at her sadly. How could I make her understand what she didn’t understand? How could I get into that beautiful blond head the tragic reality of what was happening in my country?

“Those people are her people, Rosalinda. My mother is with her people, in her house, in her neighborhood, with her neighbors. She belongs to that world, to the people of Madrid. If I want to bring her over to me in Tetouan, it’s not for fear of what might happen to her there, but because she’s all I’ve got in this life, and with each day that passes I find it harder not hearing anything from her. I haven’t heard news in a year; I haven’t the slightest idea of how she is, I don’t know how she’s supporting herself, what she’s living on, or how she’s getting through the war.”

Like a balloon being punctured, the whole sham of my fascinating past disintegrated in a second. And the strangest thing was, it didn’t bother me at all.

“But, but they told me . . . They told me your family was . . .”

I didn’t let her finish. She’d been honest with me and had told her story without deceit: it was time for me to do the same. Perhaps she wouldn’t like the version of my life that I was going to tell; maybe she would think it wasn’t terribly glamorous compared to the adventures she was used to. She might decide that from that moment on she would never again share pink gins with me or offer me rides to Tangiers in her Dodge convertible, but I couldn’t stop myself from telling her my truth in detail. After all, it was all I had.

“My family is me and my mother. We’re both dressmakers, simple dressmakers with no assets but our own hands. From the time I was born my father never had anything to do with us. He belongs to a different social class, a different world: he has money, companies, contacts, a wife he doesn’t love, and two sons he doesn’t get along with. That’s what he has. Or had, I don’t know—the first and last time I saw him was before the war and he already had a feeling they were about to kill him. And my betrothed, the attractive, enterprising fiancé who’s in Argentina managing companies and resolving financial matters, he doesn’t exist. It’s true that there was a man with whom I had a relationship and who may be in that country doing business, but he no longer has anything to do with me. He’s nothing more than an undesirable human being who broke my heart and robbed me of everything I had; I’d rather not talk about him. That’s my life, Rosalinda, and as you can see, it’s very different from yours.”

In reply to my confession she launched into a paragraph of English in which I was only able to catch the word “Morocco.”

“I didn’t understand any of that,” I said, confused.

She went back into Spanish.

“I said what the hell does it matter where you come from when you’re the best dressmaker in all Morocco? And as for your mother, well, as you Spaniards say, God may squeeze us, but He never suffocates us entirely . . . It’ll all work itself out, you’ll see.”