The Time in Between A Novel

PART FOUR



PALACIO DAS GALVEIAS IN LISBON





Chapter Forty-Four

__________


Several hundred people, all of them well fed and even better dressed, saw in the New Year of 1941 in the Madrid Casino’s Royal Hall to the sound of a Cuban band. And among them, one more in the crowd, was me.

My original plan had been to spend that night alone, perhaps to invite Doña Manuela and the girls to share a capon and a bottle of cider, but the tenacious insistence of two of my clients, the Álvarez-Vicuña sisters, forced me to change my plans. I took great care in getting ready for the night, albeit reluctantly: I got my hair done in a low bun and made myself up, emphasizing my eyes with Moroccan kohl to give myself the appearance of the strange displaced creature that I was supposed to be. I designed a kind of tunic, silver grey, with full sleeves and a broad belt wrapped around it to complete the silhouette, something halfway between an exotic Moorish caftan and an elegant European evening dress. The sisters’ unmarried brother collected me at home, a man by the name of Ernesto whom I never got to know beyond his birdlike face and his oily deference toward me. On arriving at the casino I made my way confidently up the large marble staircase and once in the main hall pretended not to notice the splendor of the room, or the various pairs of eyes that undisguisedly bored into me. I even pretended to ignore the gigantic chandeliers from the La Granja glass factory that hung from the ceiling and the elaborate moldings on the walls that provided a backdrop for the grandiose paintings. Confidence, mastery over myself: that’s what my image emanated, as though I were a fish, and that opulence, water; as though that sumptuous place were my natural milieu.

But of course it wasn’t. In spite of living surrounded by fabrics as dazzling as the ones being worn that night by the women around me, the pace of the previous months hadn’t exactly been a leisurely ride, but instead a succession of days and nights in which my two occupations sucked away like leeches the integrity of a time that was ever more rarefied.

The meeting I’d had with Hillgarth two months earlier, immediately following the encounters with Beigbeder and Ignacio, had marked a before-and-after point in my way of behaving. I gave him detailed information about the former; the latter, meanwhile, I didn’t even mention. Perhaps I should have, but something stopped me: modesty, insecurity, perhaps fear. I was aware that Ignacio’s presence was the result of my carelessness: I should have informed the naval attaché the moment I suspected I was being followed. Perhaps if I had, I would have avoided having a representative of the Governance Ministry break into my house with no trouble at all, to sit and wait for me in my living room. But that meeting had been too personal, too emotional and painful to fit into the cold patterns of the Secret Intelligence Service. Keeping quiet about it went against the protocols I had been given. I’d ridden roughshod over the most fundamental rules of my mission, that was for sure. All the same, I risked it. Besides, it wasn’t the first time I’d hidden something from Hillgarth; I also hadn’t told him that Doña Manuela was a part of the past he’d forbidden me from revisiting. Fortunately neither the hiring of my old mistress nor the visit from Ignacio had any immediate consequences: no deportation order had appeared on the atelier door, no one had called me in for questioning in some sinister office, and the trench-coat ghosts had finally stopped their assault. Whether it was over for good, or just a temporary reprieve, I had yet to find out.

At the urgent meeting to which Hillgarth summoned me after Beigbeder’s removal from office, he appeared as neutral as on the day I met him, but his interest in absorbing every last detail about the colonel’s visit made me suspect that his embassy was unsettled and confused at the news of the dismissal.

I didn’t have any trouble finding the address he’d given me, a first floor in a distinguished old building: nothing that looked at all suspicious. Once I’d rung the bell I only had to wait a few seconds for the door to open, and an old nurse invited me in.

“Dr. Rico is expecting me,” I announced, following the instructions on the ribbon of the box of candies.

“Follow me, please.”

As I’d expected, when I entered the large room to which she led me I didn’t find any doctor, but an Englishman with luxuriant eyebrows who had an altogether different profession. Although on a number of previous occasions I’d seen him at Embassy in his blue navy uniform, on that day he was in civilian clothes: a light-colored shirt, dotted tie, and an elegant grey flannel suit. Quite apart from the apparel, his presence was altogether incongruous in that consulting room fitted out with all the equipment of a profession that wasn’t his: a metal screen with cotton curtain, glass cabinets full of jars and equipment, a stretcher over to one side, certificates and diplomas covering the walls. He shook my hand energetically, but didn’t waste any more time on unnecessary formalities.

No sooner had we sat down than I started talking. I recalled the night with Beigbeder second by second, trying hard not to forget the slightest details. I related everything I’d heard from him, described his condition with minute precision, answered dozens of questions, and finally handed over his letters to Rosalinda intact. My explanation took more than a hour, during which time he listened as he sat with a focused expression while—cigarette by cigarette—he made his way methodically through an entire box of Craven A.

“We still don’t know the impact this ministerial change will have on us, but the situation looks far from positive,” he declared at last, putting out his final cigarette. “We’ve just notified London and haven’t yet had a reply; in the meantime we’re all just waiting. Which is why I ask you to be extremely cautious and not to make any mistakes now. Receiving Beigbeder in your house was a real act of rashness; I understand that you couldn’t have denied him access, and you did well to calm him down and prevent his condition from degenerating, but the risk you ran was extremely high. From now on, do please be as cautious as you possibly can, and in the future try not to get yourself into similar situations. And take care with any suspicious presences around you, especially close to your home: don’t rule out the possibility that you may be being watched.”

“I won’t, don’t worry.” I guessed that he might have suspected something about Ignacio following me, but I preferred not to ask.

“Everything’s going to get even more complicated, that’s the only thing we know for sure,” he added as he held his hand out to me again, this time in farewell. “Once they’re rid of the inconvenient minister, we can assume that Germany’s pressure on Spain will increase, so remain vigilant and ready for any eventuality.”

Over the months that followed I worked accordingly: I minimized the risks I took, tried to appear in public as little as possible, and focused on my work with all my energy. We went on sewing, more and more. The relative calm I’d gained by adding Doña Manuela to the workshop lasted barely a few weeks: the growing clientele and the approaching Christmas season obliged me to go back to devoting myself one hundred percent to my sewing. Between fittings, however, I remained engrossed in my other responsibility—the clandestine one. And so, as I was adjusting the sides of a cocktail dress, I’d also be obtaining information about what guests would attend the reception being held at the German embassy to honor Himmler, head of the Gestapo, and while I took measurements for a new suit for a baroness, I’d learn how enthusiastically Madrid’s German colony was awaiting the arrival of Otto Horcher’s new restaurant, modeled after the favorite restaurant of the Nazi high command back in their own capital. I told Hillgarth about all this and much more: dissecting the material minutely, choosing the most exact words, camouflaging my messages in supposed stitches, and dispatching them punctually. Following his warnings, I remained constantly alert and focused, bearing in mind everything that was happening around me. And as a result I did notice some things change in those days, little details that might have been a result of the new situation, or that were perhaps just mere chance. One Saturday at the Prado Museum I didn’t see the silent bald man who usually received my portfolio filled with coded patterns; I never saw him again. A few weeks later the girl from the hairdresser’s cloakroom was replaced by another woman: older, heavier, and equally inscrutable. I also noticed more vigilance on the streets and in the shops, and I learned to recognize who the people were who were watching: Germans the size of closets, silent and threatening with their overcoats down almost to their feet; skinny Spaniards who smoked nervously outside a front door, next to a business, behind a sign. Even though I wasn’t really the target of their efforts, I did my best to ignore them, changing my route or crossing over to the opposite sidewalk when I spotted them. Sometimes, in order to avoid having to walk past or approach them directly, I would take refuge in some shop or other or pause at a roasted chestnut seller’s stall or a window display. Other times they were impossible to avoid because I ran into them unexpectedly and with no opportunity to change direction. Then I’d steel myself with courage and formulate a silent Here Goes. . . picking up my pace firmly, looking straight ahead. Sure of myself, distant, almost haughty, as though what I was carrying were something purchased on a whim, or a little case full of makeup, rather than a shipment of coded information on the private agendas of the Third Reich’s most powerful figures in Spain.

I also kept abreast of the political changes that surrounded me. As I used to do with Jamila in Tetouan, every morning I’d send Martina to buy the papers: ABC, Arriba, El Alcázar. Over breakfast, between sips of coffee, I’d devour the tales of what was happening in Spain and Europe. That was how I learned that Serrano Suñer had taken over as the new minister of foreign affairs. I scrutinized every word of the related news concerning the trip he and Franco made to meet Hitler in Hendaya. I read as well about the tripartite pact between Germany, Italy, and Japan; about the invasion of Greece; about the thousand movements occurring at vertiginous speed during those tempestuous times.

I read, I sewed, I passed on information. Passed on information, sewed, and read: that had been my day-to-day life during the final phase of that year that was drawing to a close. Perhaps that was why I agreed to celebrate its ending at the casino: some kind of entertainment would be good for me, to soothe all that tension.

Marita and Teté Álvarez-Vicuña approached their brother and me the moment they saw us enter the hall. We praised one another’s dresses and hairdos, we remarked on frivolous, silly matters, and as usual I dropped in a few words of Arabic and the occasional phony expression in French. Meanwhile I was casting sidelong glances at the room and saw a number of familiar faces, several uniforms, and a few swastikas. I wondered how many of the people walking about so apparently relaxed were in fact, like me, informers and stool pigeons. Several, I guessed, and decided to trust no one and keep my eyes peeled; perhaps I could pick up some information that would be of interest to Hillgarth and his people. While my mind was musing on these plans and I pretended to be listening to the conversation, my hostess Marita moved away from me and disappeared for a few moments. When she returned she had someone on her arm, and I knew at once that the course of the night had changed.