The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Twenty-Nine

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When I’d finished the ironing I looked at my watch. Six twenty. The garment was ready; all I needed to do now was make myself presentable.

I sank into the bath and let my mind go blank. The nerves would be there when the event drew closer, but for now I deserved a rest: a rest in hot water and soap bubbles. I felt my tired body relax, felt my fingers, weary of sewing, loosen up from their stiffness and my neck muscles unclench. I started to doze off; the world seemed to be melting into the porcelain of the bathtub. I couldn’t remember such a pleasurable moment in months, but the lovely feeling didn’t last long: it was interrupted by the bathroom door being thrown wide open without so much as a knock.

“But what are you thinking of, girl?” yelled Candelaria. “It’s after six thirty and you’re still soaking like a chickpea; honey, you won’t have enough time! When were you thinking about getting yourself together?”

The Matutera had brought along what she considered to be her vital emergency kit: her dear friend Remedios the hairdresser and Angelita, a woman who lived next door to the boardinghouse and had a gift for manicure. A short while before I’d sent Jamila to La Luneta to buy some hairpins; she’d run into Candelaria on the way, which was how the Matutera learned that I was much more concerned about my clients’ clothes than my own and barely had a minute free to get myself ready.

“Hurry up, then, girl; get yourself out of the tub, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us and we’re desperately short on time.”

I allowed myself to be taken over; it would have been impossible to fight against that whirlwind. And of course I was deeply grateful for her help: there was only three-quarters of an hour left before Marcus Logan would arrive and I still looked (as the Matutera put it) like a scrub brush. The moment I managed to get a towel wrapped around my body, the work began.

Angelita the neighbor focused on my hands, rubbing them with oil, removing rough areas, and filing my nails. Candelaria’s dear Remedios, meanwhile, took charge of my hair. Knowing I wouldn’t have much time in the evening, I’d washed it that morning; what I needed now was a decent hairdo. Candelaria served as assistant to them both, holding out tweezers and scissors, curlers and pieces of cotton, while—never once stopping talking—she filled us in on the latest information about Serrano Suñer that was circulating around Tetouan. He’d arrived two days earlier and had been escorted by Beigbeder around all the relevant places and met all the relevant personalities in North Africa: from Ksar el Kabir to Chefchaouen and then to Dar Riffien, from the caliph to the grand vizier. I hadn’t seen Rosalinda since the previous week; yet the news had been circulating from mouth to mouth.

“They say they had a Moorish meal yesterday in Ketama, surrounded by pine trees, sitting on rugs on the ground. They say the In-law-ísimo almost had conniptions when he saw everyone eating with their fingers; the man had no idea how to bring couscous to his mouth without dropping half of it along the way . . .”

“And the high commissioner was utterly thrilled, playing the great host and smoking one cigar after another,” added a voice from the doorway. It was Félix, naturally.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked, surprised. His afternoon walk with his mother was sacred, even more so on a day like today when the whole city was out on the street. Tipping his thumb against his mouth, he indicated that Doña Encarna was at home, obligingly drunk earlier than usual.

“And since you’re going to be abandoning me tonight for some upstart journalist, at least I didn’t want to miss out on the preparations. Anything I can help with, ladies?”

“Aren’t you the one who paints divinely?” Candelaria asked him suddenly. Each knew about the other, but this was the first time they’d met.

“Like Murillo himself.”

“Then how about seeing if you can do this girl’s eyes?” she said, holding out a makeup case that she’d got hold of from heaven knows where.

Félix had never made anyone up in his life, but he didn’t flinch from the task. Quite the contrary: he accepted the Matutera’s order as though it were a gift, and having consulted the photographs in a couple of issues of Vanity Fair in search of inspiration, he became engrossed in my face as though it were a canvas.

At seven fifteen I was still wrapped in my towel with my arms stretched out, while Candelaria and her neighbor blew the nail polish dry. At seven twenty Félix finished going over my eyebrows with his thumbs. At twenty-five past, Remedios put the final pin in my hair, and just a few seconds later Jamila ran like a maniac in from the balcony, announcing at the top of her lungs that my date had just appeared at the end of the street.

“And now, just a couple of little things left,” my business partner announced.

“It’s all perfect, Candelaria: there’s no time for anything else,” I said, going off half naked to fetch my outfit.

“Don’t even think about it,” I heard her warning behind me.

“I really can’t stop, Candelaria, honestly . . . ,” I insisted anxiously.

“Shut up and look, I said,” she commanded, grabbing me by the arm halfway down the corridor. Then she held out a small flat packet wrapped in crinkled paper.

I tore off the wrapping, realizing I couldn’t refuse any longer; I knew there was no way I was going to win this one.

“Candelaria, I don’t believe it!” I said, unfolding a pair of silk stockings. “How did you get hold of these? You told me there weren’t any to be had for months.”

“Just stop talking once and for all and open this one now,” she said, stopping my flow of gratitude and handing me another packet.

In the coarse wrapping paper I found a beautiful object, shell shaped and golden edged.

“It’s a compact,” she explained proudly. “For you to powder your nose all up, to show you’re no less than any of the grand important ladies you’re going to be rubbing shoulders with.”

“It’s lovely,” I whispered, stroking the surface. Then I opened it: inside there was a tablet of compacted powder, a small mirror, and a white cotton powder puff. “Thank you very much, Candelaria. You needn’t have bothered, you’ve already done so much for me . . .”

I couldn’t say any more for two reasons: I was about to cry, and at just that moment the doorbell sounded. The noise of the bell made me react, there was no time to get sentimental.

“Jamila, open it—quick!” I commanded. “Félix, bring me the slip that’s on the bed; Candelaria, help me with the stockings, if I rush I’ll end up making a run in them. Remedios, you get the shoes; Angelita, draw the curtain in the hallway. Let’s go, everyone into the workroom so he won’t hear us.”

I’d finally used the raw silk to sew myself a two-piece outfit with broad lapels, a fitted waist, and évasée skirt. Since I didn’t have any jewels, the only accessory I wore was a tobacco-colored cloth flower at my shoulder, which matched the vertiginously heeled shoes that a cobbler in the Moorish quarter had fashioned for me. Remedios had succeeded in transforming my hair into an elegant loose bun that gracefully emphasized Félix’s improvised makeup job. Despite my friend’s inexperience, the result was superb: he’d filled my eyes with joy, and lips with voluptuousness, and found a glow in my tired face.

Between all of them, they managed to dress me, put my shoes on, and retouch my hair and my rouge. I didn’t even have time to look at myself in the mirror; as soon as I knew that I was ready I went out into the hallway and rushed along it on the tips of my shoes. Arriving at the foyer I stopped and, feigning an easy pace, walked into the living room. Marcus Logan had his back to me, watching the street through one of the balcony windows. He turned when he heard my footsteps on the floor tiles.

Nine days had passed since our previous meeting, and over that time the traces of the aches and pains with which the journalist had arrived seemed to have diminished. He was waiting for me with his left hand in the pocket of a dark suit, and he no longer wore a sling. On his face there were now barely more than a few traces of what used to be bloody wounds, and his skin had absorbed the Moroccan sun until it was a tanned color that contrasted starkly with the spotless white of his shirt. He stood without any apparent effort, his shoulders firm, his back straight. He smiled on seeing me, and this time it didn’t seem hard for him to stretch his lips in both directions.

“The In-law-ísimo isn’t going to want to go back to Burgos after seeing you tonight,” was how he greeted me.

I tried to give a reply that was equally clever but was distracted by a voice behind me.

“Very nice, girl,” pronounced Félix in a hoarse whisper from his hiding place in the foyer.

I stifled a smile and just said, “Shall we go?”

He didn’t get a chance to reply, for just as he was about to do so an overwhelming presence invaded the room.

“Hang on just a sec, Don Marcus,” the Matutera insisted, raising her hand as though seeking an audience. “Just one little piece of advice I’d like to give you before the two of you are off, if I may.”

Logan looked at me, rather disconcerted.

“She’s a friend,” I explained.

“In that case you can say whatever you want to me.”

Candelaria walked over to him and started talking to him while pretending to remove some nonexistent lint from the front of his jacket.

“You just watch yourself, scribbler, this girl’s already got a lot of misfortunes on her back. So if you make a move on her with your moneyed outsider’s ways, I’m just going to have to come down on you like a ton of bricks, because if you start getting too cocky and harm a single hair of her head, my cousin and I will get someone to do a little number on you before you know what’s what, and one of these fine nights you’ll find yourself taking a blade in one of the streets in the Morería and getting the good side of your face slashed till it’s left like the hide of a piglet, all marked up for the rest of your days, you get me, sweetheart?”

The journalist was unable to reply; fortunately, in spite of his impeccable Spanish, he’d barely been able to understand a word of my business partner’s threatening speech.

“What did she say?” he asked, turning to me with a confused expression.

“Nothing important. Come on, it’s getting late.”

I was struggling to hide my pride as we left. Not at how I looked, or at the attractive man I had beside me, or the celebrated event that was awaiting us that night, but for the unshakable affection of the friends I was leaving behind.

The streets were adorned with red and gold flags, with garlands and posters greeting the distinguished visitor and exalting his brother-in-law. Hundreds of people, Arab and Spanish, were milling about, toward no apparent destination. The balconies, adorned with the Nationalist colors, were full of people, the roof terraces, too. There were young men perched in the most implausible places—on poles, railings, lampposts—trying to find the best spot to witness the action; girls walking arm in arm, their lips newly painted. Children ran around in packs, zigzagging in every direction. The Spanish kids were all combed and smelling of cologne, the boys with their little ties and the girls with satin bows at the end of their plaits; the Moorish children were in their djellabas and tarbooshes, many of them barefoot.

As we made our way toward the Plaza de España, the mass of bodies became denser, the voices louder. It was hot and the light was still intense; we could hear a band tuning up. Temporary wooden bleachers had been set out; the whole space was already occupied to the last inch. Marcus Logan needed to show his invitation several times for them to let us past the security barriers that separated the mob from the areas through which the dignitaries were to pass. We barely spoke as we walked: the hubbub and the constant interruptions to get past some obstacle or other made conversation difficult. Sometimes I had to grab hard on to his arm to prevent us from being separated by the crowd; other times it was he who had to hold firmly on to my shoulders to stop me from being swallowed up by the hungry chaos. It took us a while to get there, but we made it. As we went in through the gate to the High Commission, I felt a jolt of anxiety, then tried to suppress it.

There were several Arab soldiers guarding the entrance, imposing in their dress uniforms, with big turbans and capes flapping in the wind. We crossed the garden, which was adorned with flags and banners, and an adjutant directed us to a large group of guests who were waiting for things to begin, gathered under the white awnings that had been erected for the occasion. Waiting in its shade were peaked caps, gloves and pearls, ties, fans, blue shirts under white jackets with the Falange crest embroidered at the breast, and a decent number of dresses sewn—stitch by stitch—by my own hands. I discreetly gestured a greeting to several clients, pretending not to notice the few stares and hidden whispers that we received from various places—Who is she, Who is he, I could read in the movement of some of their lips. I recognized certain faces, many of which I’d only seen in the photographs Félix had shown me in the preceding days; with others, meanwhile, I had a more personal connection. With Commissioner Vázquez, for example, who masterfully hid his disbelief at seeing me in that setting.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, moving away from a group and approaching us.

“Good evening, Don Claudio.” I tried hard to sound natural; I don’t know whether I succeeded. “Good to see you.”

“Sure about that?” he asked with an ironic smile.

I couldn’t reply because—to my astonishment—he’d gone straight on to greet my companion.

“Good evening, Mr. Logan. I see you’ve gotten yourself well accustomed to local life.”

“The commissioner called me into his office as soon as I arrived in Tetouan,” the journalist explained as they shook hands. “Formalities for visiting foreigners.”

“Right now he’s not under suspicion for anything, but let me know if you see him acting strangely,” joked the commissioner. “And you, Logan, you take care of Miss Quiroga for me—she’s had a tough year, working nonstop.”

We left the commissioner and continued on our way. At all times the journalist was relaxed and attentive, and I did what I could to avoid feeling like a fish out of water. He hardly knew anyone either, but this didn’t seem to trouble him in the least: he got by with great composure, with an enviable confidence that was probably a result of his occupation. Remembering what Félix had taught me, I discreetly pointed out to him who some of the guests were: that man in a dark suit is José Ignacio Toledano, a rich Jew, the director of the Hassan Bank; that elegant woman with the feathered headdress who’s smoking with a cigarette holder is the Duchess of Guise, a French noblewoman who lives in Larache; the large man whose glass is being refilled is Mariano Bertuchi, the painter. Everything went according to protocol. More guests arrived, then the Spanish civil authorities, and then the soldiers; the Moroccans next, in their exotic outfits. From the coolness of the garden we could hear the clamor from the streets—the shouts, the cheering and applause. He’s arrived, he’s here, we heard again and again. But the guest of honor still took a while to come into view: first he stopped in the crowds, to be acclaimed like a bullfighter or one of those American movie stars who so fascinated my neighbor.

And finally he arrived, the man so long awaited, so desired, El Caudillo’s brother-in-law, and long live Spain. He wore a black suit and looked serious, stiff, extremely thin, and tremendously handsome with his almost white hair combed back. His expression was resolute, as the Falange anthem said, with those intelligent cat’s eyes and his thirty-seven somewhat ill-worn years.

I must have been one of the few people without the slightest curiosity to see him up close or to shake his hand, but all the same I didn’t look away. It wasn’t Serrano who interested me, but someone who was very close to him and whom I hadn’t yet seen in person: Juan Luis Beigbeder. My client and friend’s lover turned out to be a tall man, thin but not too thin, somewhere around fifty. He wore a dress uniform with a broad sash tied around his waist and a peaked cap and carried a light cane, a sort of riding crop. His nose was thin and prominent: beneath it, a dark mustache; above it, round-framed glasses, two perfect circles through which it was possible to make out a pair of intelligent eyes that followed everything that was happening around him. He seemed an odd man, perhaps a little quaint. In spite of his attire, he didn’t have a martial bearing at all: far from it. There was something in the way he moved that was a little theatrical, which nonetheless didn’t seem to be a pretense: his gestures were refined and opulent at the same time, his laugh expansive, his voice quick and resonant. He moved around among the guests nonstop, greeting people effusively, distributing hugs, pats on the back, and prolonged handshakes; he smiled as he talked to people, to Moors, Christians, Jews, and then back to the beginning again. Perhaps in his free time he let out the intellectual romantic that according to Rosalinda he had inside him, but at that moment the only thing he displayed to his audience was an extraordinary gift for public relations.

He seemed to have tied Serrano Suñer to him with an invisible rope; sometimes he allowed him to move away just a little, gave him some freedom of movement to greet people and have little chats with them himself, to allow him to be adored. And yet he would then immediately reel him back to his vicinity: he’d explain something to him, introduce him to someone, put his arm around his shoulders, say a few words into his ear, give a laugh, and then let him go again.

I tried repeatedly to find Rosalinda, but I couldn’t. Not at the side of her dear Juan Luis, nor far from him.

“Have you seen Señora Fox anywhere?” I asked Logan when he finished exchanging a few words in English with someone from Tangiers to whom he introduced me and whose name and position I forgot instantly.

“No, I haven’t seen her,” he replied simply, focusing his attention on the group that was forming around Serrano. “Do you know who they are?” he said, gesturing toward them with a discreet movement of his chin.

“The Germans,” I replied.

There was the demanding Frau Langenheim, in the magnificent outfit of violet shantung that I’d sewn for her; Frau Heinz, who’d been my first client, dressed in black and white like a harlequin; Bernhardt’s wife, who had an Argentine accent and this time was not premiering an outfit; and one other I didn’t know. All of them accompanied by their husbands, all of them fêting the In-law-ísimo while he dispensed smiles in the midst of the tight group of Germans. This time, however, Beigbeder didn’t interrupt their conversation and allowed him to stay where he was, unaccompanied, for a long time.