The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Eight

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I walked into the Palace Hotel at noon one day in the middle of September, with the confident stride of someone who had spent half her life strutting along the hallways of the best hotels on the planet. I was in a suit of laine glacée the color of thick blood, and my hair had been recently cut to just above the shoulder. On my head was a sophisticated felt hat with feathers on it, from the studio of Madame Boissenet in Tangiers: a real pièce de résistance, which (according to her) was how the elegant women in occupied France referred to such hats. The outfit was complemented by a pair of crocodile shoes with ultra high heels, which I’d obtained from the best shoemaker on the Boulevard Pasteur. In my hands a matching handbag and a pair of calfskin gloves dyed pearl grey. Two or three heads turned as I passed. I didn’t react.

Behind me a bellhop was carrying a nécessaire de voyage, two Go-yard suitcases, and a few more hatboxes. The rest of the baggage, the furniture, and the shipment of fabrics would be arriving by truck the following day, having made it across the Strait without any trouble—as they were bound to do, given that the customs transit papers were stamped and restamped till they appeared to be the most official documents in the universe, courtesy of the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I, meanwhile, had arrived by plane; it was the first time I had flown in my life. From the Sania Ramel Aerodrome to Tablada in Seville; from Tablada to Barajas. I left Tetouan with my Spanish papers in the name of Sira Quiroga, but someone altered the passenger list so that I wouldn’t appear on it under that name. During the course of the flight I used my little emergency sewing scissors to cut my old passport into a thousand shreds, which I hid in a knotted handkerchief; after all, it was a document from the Republic, which wouldn’t be of any use to me in the New Spain. I landed in Madrid with a brand-new Moroccan passport. Alongside the photograph an address in Tangiers and my newly acquired identity: Arish Agoriuq. Strange? Not particularly. It was just my name and surname written back to front, with the h that my neighbor Félix had added in the early days of the business left just where it was. It wasn’t really a proper Arab name, but it sounded foreign, and it wouldn’t arouse suspicion in Madrid, where no one had a clue what people were called down there in the land of the Moors, down there in the land of Africa, in the words of the old paso doble.

In the days leading up to my departure I followed all the instructions in Rosalinda’s long letter, word for word. I made contact with the people I was supposed to in order to get hold of my new identity. I chose the best materials from the shops she recommended and ordered them to be sent with the bills to a local address, of whom I never discovered. I went back to Dean’s Bar and ordered a Bloody Mary. If my decision had been no, I would have had to settle for a modest lemonade. The barman served me, impassive. He made comments—as though reluctantly—on what might have seemed just banalities: that the previous night’s storm had wrecked one of the awnings; a boat named Jason sailing under an American flag was due to dock the following Friday at ten in the morning with a cargo of English merchandise. From that innocuous comment I was able to extract the information I needed. On that Friday at the specified hour I headed for the American embassy in Tangiers, a beautiful Moorish mansion stuck right in the medina. I informed the soldier who was controlling access to the building that I was there to see Mr. Jason. He lifted a heavy internal telephone and announced in English that his visitor had arrived. After receiving instructions, he hung up and invited me into an Arab courtyard surrounded by whitewashed arches. There I was met by an official who almost without a word led me swiftly through a labyrinth of corridors, stairways, and galleries to a white terrace in the highest part of the building.

“Mr. Jason,” he said simply, gesturing toward a man at the far side of the roof terrace, then vanished, trotting back down the stairs.

This man had extremely thick eyebrows, and his name wasn’t Jason, but Hillgarth. Alan Hillgarth, naval attaché of the British embassy in Madrid and coordinator of the activities of the Secret Intelligence Service in Spain. A wide face, ample brow, and dark hair perfectly parted and combed back with brilliantine. He approached me, dressed in a grey alpaca suit whose quality I was able to recognize even at a distance. He walked confidently, holding a black leather briefcase in his left hand, and then introduced himself, shaking my hand and inviting me to take a few moments to enjoy the view. It was indeed impressive. The port, the bay, the whole strait, and a strip of land beyond.

“Spain,” he said, pointing to the horizon. “So near, and yet so far away. Shall we sit?”

He gestured toward a wrought iron bench and we sat down. He drew a small metal box of Craven A cigarettes from his jacket pocket. I accepted one and together we smoked, looking out to sea. We could barely hear any sounds from nearby, just a few voices in Arabic wafting up from the nearby streets, and from time to time the shrill sounds of the gulls that were flying over the beach.

“Everything is almost ready in Madrid and awaiting your arrival,” he announced at last.

His Spanish was excellent. I didn’t reply, I had nothing to say—all I wanted was to hear his instructions.

“We’ve rented an apartment on Calle Núñez de Balboa—do you know where that is?”

“Yes, I worked near there for a bit.”

“Mrs. Fox is taking charge of furnishing it and getting it ready. Via intermediaries, naturally.”

“I understand.”

“I know she’s already got you up to speed, but I think it would be best for me to remind you. Colonel Beigbeder and Mrs. Fox are in an extremely delicate position right now. We’re all expecting the colonel’s dismissal from the ministry; it would appear that it won’t be long in coming, and it’ll be a dreadful loss to our government. Right now Mr. Serrano Suñer, the minister of governance, has just left for Berlin: they’ve arranged for him to meet von Ribbentrop, Beigbeder’s counterpart, and then Hitler. The fact that Spain’s own minister of foreign affairs isn’t involved in this trip but staying behind in Madrid is an indication of how fragile his position is. In the meantime, the colonel and Mrs. Fox are collaborating with us, bringing us some very interesting contacts. Everything, naturally, is happening in a clandestine fashion. Both are closely followed by agents of certain bodies that are rather unfriendly, if you’ll allow the euphemism.”

“The Gestapo and the Falange,” I noted, recalling Rosalinda’s words.

“I see you’re already well informed. Yes, in fact. We don’t want the same to happen to you, though I can’t guarantee that we’ll be able to avoid it. But don’t get too worried. Everyone in Madrid watches everyone else: everyone is under suspicion for something and nobody trusts anybody, but fortunately for us there isn’t a lot of patience around: everyone seems to be in a tearing hurry, so if they don’t manage to find anything interesting, in a few days they forget about the target and move on to the next one. That notwithstanding, if you do think you’re being watched, let us know and we’ll try to find out who’s doing it. And above all, keep calm. Move about quite naturally, don’t try to throw them off, and don’t get nervous, you understand me?”

“I think so,” I said, without sounding very convinced.

“Mrs. Fox,” he said, changing the subject, “is getting the ball rolling in anticipation of your arrival; I think she’s already secured you a handful of potential clients. Which is why—and now that autumn is already almost upon us—it would be good for you to get yourself installed in Madrid as soon as possible. When do you think you could do it?”

“Whenever you say.”

“Thank you for being so obliging. We’ve taken the liberty of arranging a flight for you for next Tuesday—does that suit you?”

I discreetly rested my hands on my knees—I was afraid they’d start to shake.

“I’ll be ready.”

“Excellent. As I understand it, Mrs. Fox has already told you a bit about the aims of your mission.”

“More or less.”

“Well, I’m going to give you some further details now. What we need from you, to begin with, is to send us periodic reports about certain German women, and other Spanish women, who we expect will shortly become your clients. As Mrs. Fox has told you, the shortage of fabrics has been turning into a serious problem for Spanish dressmakers, and we know firsthand that there are a number of women living in Madrid who are eager to find someone who can offer them dressmaking skills as well as materials. That’s where you’ll come in. If our predictions are correct, your collaboration will be extremely valuable to us, since right now our contacts with the German authorities in Madrid are nil, and contacts with the Spanish authorities almost nonexistent, with the exception of Colonel Beigbeder, and him not for too much longer, I fear. The information we want to get hold of through you will be largely on the movements of the Nazi colony living in Madrid and of a few Spaniards connected to them. Following each one of them individually is quite beyond our capacities, which is why we thought that through their wives and girlfriends we might get some idea of their contacts, their relationships and activities. All clear so far?”

“Yes, all clear.”

“Our primary interest is to learn in advance of the social plans of the German community in Madrid: the events they’re organizing, which Spaniards they’re in contact with, where they meet and how often. A great deal of their strategic activity is carried out more in social events than through office work, so to speak, and we’d like to get people we trust infiltrating them. When they go to these functions the Nazi representatives are usually accompanied by their wives, and we assume that they have to go appropriately dressed. We hope, therefore, that you’ll be able to get advance information about where your clothes are going to be worn. Do you think that would be possible?”

“Yes, it’s quite usual for clients to talk about all that. The problem is that my German is very limited.”

“We’ve already thought about that. We’ve arranged a little help for you. As I’m sure you know, Colonel Beigbeder spent several years as military attaché in Berlin. Working in the embassy kitchens at the time was a Spanish couple with two daughters; apparently the colonel was very good to them, helped them out with some problems, took an interest in the girls’ education, and in short they had a good relationship, which was interrupted when he was posted to Morocco. Well, when they heard that the former attaché had been named the new minister, the family—who had been back in Spain for a few years—got in touch with him, asking his help again. The mother died before the war and the father suffers from chronic asthma and can barely leave the house; he doesn’t have any formal political affiliation either, which suits us very well. The father asked Beigbeder to find work for his daughters, and now we’re going to offer them some, if you’ll agree. They’re two young women, aged seventeen and nineteen, who understand and speak German absolutely fluently. I don’t know them personally, but Mrs. Fox interviewed them both a few days ago and was quite satisfied. She’s asked me to say that you won’t miss Jamila with them in the house. I don’t know who Jamila is, but I hope you understand the message.”

I smiled for the first time since the conversation had begun.

“Very well. If Mrs. Fox thinks they are acceptable, I will, too. Can they sew?”

“I don’t think so, but they can help you to take care of the house and maybe you can teach them some of the basics of sewing. In any case, you have to be clear that these girls shouldn’t know what you’re secretly involved in, so you’ll have to come up with some way for them to help you but without ever letting them see why you’re interested in the things you ask them to translate when you don’t understand. Another cigarette?”

He took the Craven A box out again, and once again I accepted.

“I’ll deal with them, don’t worry about that,” I said after slowly exhaling the smoke.

“Well then, let’s move on. As I’ve said, our main interest is to keep up to date with the social lives of the Nazis in Madrid. But we’re also keen to know about their movements and the contact they have with Germany: if they travel to their country and what for; if they receive visitors, who these visitors are, how they mean to receive them . . . In short, any sort of extra information that might be of interest to us.”

“And what will I do with this information if I’m able to get hold of it?”

“As to how you are to transmit the information you can get your hands on, we’ve been considering the matter at some length, and we think we’ve come up with a way to start. Perhaps this won’t be the definitive method of communication, but we think it’s worth putting to the test. The SOE uses a number of codes with differing levels of security. Sooner or later, however, the Germans always end up breaking them. It’s very common to use codes based on literary works—poems, especially. Yeats, Milton, Byron, Tennyson. Well, we’re planning to try something different. Something much simpler, and at the same time more befitting the circumstances. Do you know what Morse code is?”

“The one from the telegraphs?”

“Precisely. It’s a code where letters and numbers are represented through intermittent signals—audio signals on the whole. These audio signals also have a very simple graphic representation, however, by means of a system of dots and short horizontal dashes. Look.”

He drew a medium-sized envelope from his briefcase and out of it took a sort of chart on a piece of card. The letters of the alphabet and numbers from zero to nine were listed in two columns. Beside each of them was the corresponding combination of dots and dashes to identify them.

“Now imagine you want to transcribe some word—Tangiers, say. Do it out loud.”

“Dash. Dot dash. Dash dot. Dash dash dot. Dot dot. Dot. Dot dash dot. Dot dot dot.”

“Perfect. Try to visualize what it would look like now. No, better still, write it down on a piece of paper. Here, use this,” he said, taking a silver retractable pencil from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Right here, on this envelope.”

Again following the table, I transcribed the seven letters: —.——.——. .. . .—. . . .

“Excellent. Now look at it closely. Does it remind you of anything? Does it look at all familiar?”

I looked at what I’d written. I smiled. Of course it looked familiar. How was I not going to recognize something I’d spent my whole life doing?

“It’s like stitches,” I said quietly.

“Exactly,” he confirmed. “That’s the point I’m getting at. You see, what we’re planning is for any information you get your hands on to be passed on to us using this system. Obviously you’ll have to refine your skills of summarizing so as to express what you want to say using as few words as possible, otherwise each sequence will go on forever. And I want you to hide it in such a way that it looks like a pattern, a sketch or something along those lines, anything you might associate with a dressmaker without arousing any suspicion. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Well then, let’s try it out. Imagine that the message is ‘Dinner at the home of the Baroness de Petrino on the fifth of February at eight. The Countess de Ciano will be going with her husband.’ I’ll explain who these people are later, don’t worry about that. First thing you have to do is get rid of any superfluous words—articles, prepositions, et cetera. That way we can shorten the message considerably. Look: ‘Dinner home Baroness Petrino five February eight p.m. Countess Ciano going with husband.’ And now, after stripping away the extra words, we’re going to invert the order. Instead of transcribing the code from left to right as usual, we’re going to do it from right to left. And you’ll always start in the bottom right-hand corner of the surface you’re working on, going upward. Imagine a clock face showing four twenty, now imagine the minute hand starts going backward, do you follow me?”

“Yes—please, let me try.”

He handed me the folder and I put it down on my lap. I took his pencil and drew an apparently amorphous shape that covered most of the sheet. Rounded on one side, sharp at the corners. Impossible to interpret for an inexpert eye.

“What’s that?”

“Wait,” I said, without looking up.

I finished outlining the figure and positioned the pencil at the bottom right-hand corner of the figure, and running parallel to the edge I transcribed the letters in Morse code. Replacing the dots with shorter dashes. Long dash; short dash, long dash; another long dash, then a short dash . . . When I’d finished, the whole internal perimeter of the outlined shape was edged with what looked like an innocent bit of stitching.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not yet.” Out of the little sewing case that I always carried in my handbag I took a pair of scissors and with them cut out the shape, leaving a border of just a quarter inch around it.

“You said you wanted something associated with a dressmaker, didn’t you?” I said, handing it over to him. “Well, there you are: the pattern for a puff sleeve. With the message in it.”

The straight line of his pursed lips curved slowly into the faintest of smiles.

“Brilliant,” he murmured.

“I can prepare the patterns for various parts each time I have to communicate with you. Sleeves, fronts, collars, waists, cuffs, sides, depending on how long the message needs to be. I can do as many shapes as I have messages I need to get to you.”

“Brilliant, brilliant,” he repeated in the same tone, still holding the cut-out shape between his fingers.

“And now you have to tell me how I’m to get them to you.”

He spent a few more seconds looking at my handiwork with a slight expression of surprise; finally he put it away inside his briefcase.

“Very well, then, let’s go on. Unless there’s any order to the contrary, we’d like you to send us information twice a week. To begin with, it’ll be Wednesdays in the early afternoon and Saturday mornings. We thought the hand-overs should happen in two different places, both of them public. And in neither case should there be the least possible contact between you and the person collecting.”

“Won’t it be you doing it?”

“No, not whenever I can help it. And especially never in the place we’ve assigned for the Wednesday drop-offs. I’d find it difficult: I’m talking about Rosa Zavala’s beauty salon, next to the Palace Hotel. It’s currently the best establishment of its kind in Madrid, or at least the one most highly thought of among foreigners and the more refined Spanish women. You should become a regular customer and start frequenting the place. In fact, it’s best that you should fill your life with routines so that your movements become highly predictable and seem altogether natural. In this salon there’s a room the moment you go in on the right-hand side, which is where the customers leave their handbags, hats, and outdoor coats. One of the walls is completely covered in little individual lockers where ladies can leave their belongings. You’ll always use the last one of these lockers, the one in the corner at the back of the room. At the entrance there’s usually a young girl, not particularly bright: her job is to help the customers with their things, but a lot of them refuse her help and do it for themselves, so it won’t seem strange that you do the same; just leave her a good tip and she’ll be happy. When you open the door to your locker and are about to leave your things inside, it’ll almost completely obscure your body, so it’ll be possible for people to guess at your movements but no one will ever be able to see what you’re up to. That’s when you’ll take out the thing you need to get to us, rolled into a tube; you should leave it on the top shelf of the locker. Be sure to push it to the back so it’s not visible from the outside.”

“And who’ll collect it?”

“Someone we trust, you needn’t concern yourself with that. Someone who that same afternoon, very shortly after you leave, will go into the salon to get her hair done just as you did earlier, and will use the same locker.”

“And if it’s taken?”

“That doesn’t usually happen because it’s the last one. If that happens, however, use the one before it. And if that one is, too, then the next. And so on. Is that clear? Now repeat it all back to me, please.”

“Hairdresser’s on Wednesday early afternoon. I’ll use the last locker, I’ll open the door, and as I’m putting my things inside I’ll take out of my bag, or wherever I’ve been keeping it, a tube in which I’ve placed all the patterns I have to get to you.”

“Tie them with a ribbon or a rubber band. Sorry to interrupt—go on.”

“Then I’ll leave the tube on the top shelf, pushed all the way back. Then I’ll close the locker and go get my hair done.”

“Very good. Now for the Saturday delivery. For those days we’ve planned to work at the Prado Museum. We have a contact who has infiltrated the cloakroom staff—for these days it would be best for you to arrive at the museum with one of those folders that artists use, do you know the ones I mean?”

I remembered the portfolio that Félix used for his painting classes in Bertuchi’s school.

“Yes, I won’t have any trouble getting hold of one of those.”

“Perfect. Take that with you, and inside it you should have basic drawing equipment—a notebook, some pencils—in short, the usual sort of thing, which you can get your hands on anywhere. You should also add whatever you have to get to me, this time in a large open envelope. For identification you should attach a cutting of fabric in some bright color to it, fixed with a pin. You’ll go to the museum every Saturday around ten in the morning; it’s a very common activity among the foreigners living in the capital. Arrive with your portfolio filled with things that mark you out as a dressmaker, in case you’re being watched at all: older drawings, sketches of outfits—again, things related to your usual work.”

“Very well. What do I do with the portfolio when I arrive?”

“You hand it over at the cloakroom. You ought always to leave it with some other item—an overcoat, a raincoat, some small purchase, so it isn’t too conspicuous on its own. Then head for one of the rooms and wander around at a leisurely pace, enjoy the paintings. After half an hour, return to the cloakroom and ask them to give the portfolio back to you. Then take it to one of the rooms and sit and draw for at least another half hour. Look at the clothes that appear in the paintings, pretend that they’re inspiring you for your future creations; behave, in short, in whatever way you think most convincing, but first check that the envelope has been removed from inside. If it hasn’t, you’ll need to return on the Sunday and repeat the operation, though I don’t think that should be necessary: using the hairdresser’s salon as cover is new, but we’ve used the Prado before and it’s always been satisfactory.”

“And I won’t know who’s picking up the patterns there either?”

“Again, someone trustworthy. Our contact in the cloakroom will take charge of passing the envelope from your portfolio to another belonging left there by another contact the same morning—that’s something they can do very easily. Are you hungry?”

I looked at the time. It was past one. I didn’t know whether I was hungry or not: I’d been so busy absorbing each syllable that I’d barely noticed the time passing. I looked out to sea again; it seemed to be a different color now. Everything else was just the same: the light on the white walls, the gulls, the voices in Arabic from the street. Hillgarth didn’t wait for my reply.

“I’m sure you must be. Please, come with me.”