The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Twenty-Seven

___________


Beigbeder and Rosalinda were delighted with the following day’s interview. She told me later that everything had taken place in a relaxed atmosphere, the two men sitting on one of the terraces of the old villa on Paseo de las Palmeras, drinking brandy and soda opposite the Río Martín plain and the slopes of the imposing Ghorgiz, where the Rif Mountains began. At the start, the three of them were all there together: the critical eye of the Englishwoman needed to gauge her compatriot’s level of trustworthiness before leaving him alone with her beloved Juan Luis. Bedouie, the Arab cook, prepared a lamb tajine for them, which was served accompanied by a grand cru burgundy. After the desserts and coffee, Rosalinda retired and the two men settled into wicker chairs to smoke cigars as they immersed themselves in their conversation.

I learned that it was almost eight in the evening when the journalist returned to the hotel following the interview, that he didn’t have any dinner that night and only asked that some fruit be brought up to his room. I learned that the following morning he headed over to the High Commission as soon as he was done with his breakfast. I also learned which streets he walked down and what time he returned; about all his comings and goings that day, and the following day, and the next as well. I was given detailed information; I discovered what he’d eaten, what he’d drunk, what newspapers he leafed through, and the color of his ties. Work had kept me busy all day, but I was aware of his every move, thanks to the efficient work of a couple of collaborators. Jamila took charge of trailing him the whole day; for a small tip, a young bellhop at the hotel informed me with equal precision what time Logan retired at night; for a little bit extra he even recalled what the journalist had eaten for his dinners, what clothes he had sent to be laundered, and what time he turned out his lights.

I managed to bear the wait for three days, receiving the minutest details about all his movements and awaiting the arrival of any news regarding the progress of his arrangements. On the fourth, having not heard anything from him, I began to think ill of him, so much so that in my mind I constructed an elaborate story according to which Marcus Logan, having attained his aim of interviewing Beigbeder and gathering the information about the Protectorate that he needed for his work, had planned to leave, quite forgetting that he still had something to settle with me. And to prevent reality from bearing out my perverse assumptions, I decided that it might be best for me to take some steps myself. Which was why, the following morning, I had no sooner sensed the approaching dawn and heard the muezzin’s call to the first prayers of the day than I was out of the house. Smartly dressed in a new wine-colored suit, carrying one of my fashion magazines under my arm, I proceeded to the courtyard of the Hotel Nacional and installed myself in a corner, my back straight, legs crossed. On guard duty, just in case.

I knew that what I was doing was utter silliness. Rosalinda had talked about granting Logan a temporary residency permit for the Protectorate; he’d given me his word, promising to help me; these arrangements just took time. If I analyzed the situation coolly, I knew I had nothing to be afraid of: all my fears were groundless, and my sitting there waiting was no more than an absurd manifestation of my insecurities. Yes, I knew that, but all the same, I decided to stay put.

He came down at nine fifteen, when the morning sun was already blazing through the crystal ceiling. The courtyard had livened up with the presence of guests who had just woken up, the bustle of the waiters, and the incessant movement of young Moroccan bellhops carrying packages and suitcases. He was still limping slightly, and his arm was in a blue cloth sling, but the bruising on his face had improved. His overall appearance, reflected in his clean clothes, the hours of sleep he’d had, and his damp, just-combed hair, was significantly better than the way he’d looked the day of his arrival. I felt a flicker of anxiety on seeing him, but I hid it with a toss of my hair and another elegant crossing of my legs. He also saw me at once and came over to greet me.

“My word, I had no idea the women here were such early risers.”

“You know the saying—God helps the early risers.”

“And what is it you want God’s help for, if you don’t mind my asking?” he said, taking a seat beside me.

“To make sure you don’t leave Tetouan without telling me how everything is going, whether the business with my mother is under way.”

“I haven’t told you anything because I don’t know anything yet,” he said. Then he leaned forward, coming closer. “You still don’t completely trust me, do you?”

His voice was certain, and close. Almost complicit. It took me a few seconds to answer as I tried to make up some lie. But I couldn’t come up with any, so I opted for being frank.

“I’m sorry, lately I don’t trust anyone.”

“I understand, don’t worry about it,” he said, smiling, still with some effort. “These aren’t good times for loyalty and trust.”

I gave a shrug that spoke volumes.

“Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” I lied. I hadn’t had breakfast, nor did I feel like having any. All I needed was to be sure that he wasn’t going to abandon me without keeping his word.

“Well, then perhaps we could . . .”

A whirlwind wrapped in a haik appeared between us, interrupting our conversation: Jamila, breathless.

“Frau Langenheim is waiting at home. She’s going to Tangiers, to buy materials. She needs Señorita Sira say how many yards to buy.”

“Tell her to wait a couple of minutes; I’ll be with her right away. Tell her to have a seat and have a look at the new pictures Candelaria brought over the other day.”

Jamila ran off again and I apologized to Logan.

“My maid; I have a client waiting for me, I’ll have to go.”

“In that case I shan’t keep you any longer. And don’t worry: everything’s already in progress and we’ll get confirmation sooner or later. But bear in mind that it might be a matter of days or weeks, it could take more than a month; it’s not possible to rush anything,” he said, getting up. He seemed more agile than he had been previously, and in much less pain.

“Really, I don’t know how to thank you,” I replied. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go: I have a lot of work waiting for me, I barely have a moment free. There are going to be a number of social functions in the next few days and my clients need new outfits.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” I asked, confused, not understanding the question.

“Are you planning to attend any of these functions? Serrano Suñer’s reception, perhaps?”

“Me?” I said with a little laugh, pushing my hair back from my face. “No, I don’t go to those things.”

“Why not?”

My first impulse was to laugh again, but I restrained myself when I realized he was being serious, that his curiosity was genuine. We were both standing now, side by side, close. I could see all the detail in the texture of the light-colored linen of his jacket and the stripes of his tie; he smelled good, the smell of good soap, of a clean man. I still had my magazine in my arms, he was resting a hand on his walking stick. I looked at him and half opened my mouth to answer. I had any number of replies to justify my absence from those alien celebrations: because no one had invited me, because it wasn’t my world, because I had nothing to do with all those people . . . At last, however, I decided not to give him any reply; I just shrugged and said again, “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” he said, gently taking hold of my arm. “Come with me to Serrano Suñer’s reception, be my date for the night.”

The invitation echoed like a whip crack and left me so overwhelmed that when I tried to find reasons to turn him down, none came to my mouth.

“You’ve just said you don’t know how to thank me for what I’ve done. Well, now there’s a way for you to do that: come to this event with me. You could help me to learn who’s who in this city, it would do me a lot of good in my work.”

“I . . . I hardly know anyone either, I haven’t really been here for long.”

“And besides, it’ll be an interesting night; we might enjoy ourselves,” he insisted.

That was a preposterous idea, absurd. What was I going to do at a party in honor of Franco’s brother-in-law, surrounded by the military top brass and the local powers that be, by people of means and representatives of foreign countries. The proposal was altogether ludicrous, and yet there was a man standing before me waiting for an answer. A man who was arranging the evacuation of the person who mattered most to me in the whole world, a foreigner I didn’t know who’d asked me to trust him. Quick bursts of conflicting thoughts rushed through my mind: some of them advised me to refuse, insisting that this was a pointless extravagance; others reminded me of the old saying I’d so often heard from my mother’s lips, about how being well bred is about knowing how to be thankful.

“Very well,” I said, swallowing hard. “I’ll go with you.”

The figure of Jamila reappeared in the hallway, waving her arms exaggeratedly, trying to move me along, not to keep the demanding Frau Langenheim waiting too long.

“Perfect. I’ll let you know the day and exact time as soon as I get my invitation.”

I shook his hand and walked back across the courtyard, my heels tapping along in haste. It wasn’t until I reached the door that I turned around and saw Marcus Logan still standing at the far end, watching me, leaning on his cane. He hadn’t moved from the spot where I’d left him, and his presence had been transformed into a silhouette set against the light. His voice, however, could be heard loud and clear.

“I’m glad you’re coming. And don’t worry, I’m in no hurry to leave Morocco.”