The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Forty-Six

__________


In mid-January I met up with him again, to explain the details of the theft of my inheritance. I presumed that he believed the story; if he didn’t, he hid it well. We had lunch at Lhardy and he suggested that we go on seeing each other. I said no, without having any very solid reason. Perhaps I thought it was too late for us to try to recover all those things we’d never shared. He kept insisting and seemed unprepared to accept my refusal easily. And he succeeded in part: bit by bit the wall of my resistance began to give way. We had lunch again, we went to the theater, to a concert at El Real; we even spent a Sunday morning together walking through El Retiro just as thirty years earlier he had done with my mother. He had a lot of time on his hands, since he was no longer working; when the war came to an end he’d had the opportunity to recover his foundry but chose not to reopen it. Then he sold the land where it stood and began to live off the income from the sale. Why didn’t he want to go on, why didn’t he start his business back up after the conflict? Out of sheer disappointment, I think. He never told me in any detail about the vicissitudes of those years, but comments dropped in other conversations we shared in those days allowed me more or less to reconstruct his painful journey. He didn’t seem to be a resentful man, though: he was too rational to allow his emotions to take charge of his life. Although he belonged to the winning side, he was also extremely critical of the new regime. He was witty and a fine conversationalist, and between the two of us there grew a special relationship that we didn’t intend as a compensation for his absence over all those years of my childhood and youth, but as a starting from scratch by way of a friendship between adults. There were mutterings about us in his circle, people speculated about the nature of the connection that held us together, a thousand wild assumptions reached his ears, which he shared with me, amused, never bothering to put anyone right.

My meetings with my father opened my eyes to a side of reality that I hitherto hadn’t known. It was thanks to him that I learned that even though the newspapers never reported it, the country was going through a constant governmental crisis, in which rumors of dismissals and resignations, ministerial changeovers, rivalries, and conspiracies multiplied like the loaves and fishes. Beigbeder’s fall, fourteen months after being sworn in in Burgos, had certainly been the most dramatic, but it was by no means the only one.

As Spain set slowly about its reconstruction, the various families that had contributed to winning the war, far from living together in harmony, began to squabble like cats and dogs. The army in confrontation with the Falange, the Falange at daggers with the monarchists, the monarchists furious because Franco wouldn’t commit to restoration, and he himself, in El Pardo, never expressing his position clearly, remaining distant, signing sentences with a firm hand and never coming down in anyone’s favor; Serrano Suñer above everyone, and everyone in turn against Serrano; some plotting on the side of the Axis, others for the Allies, each placing their bets blindly with no idea which side would eventually, as Candelaria had put it, driving the herd home.

In those days the British and the Germans were keeping up their constant tug-of-war both across the world and in the streets of the Spanish capital. Unfortunately for the cause in which fortune had positioned me, the Germans seemed to have a much more powerful and effective propaganda machine. As Hillgarth had told me in Tangiers, these efforts were managed from the embassy itself, with more than generous economic resources and a formidable team led by the famous Lazar, who was also able to count on the indulgence of the regime. I knew firsthand that his social activities never stopped: his dinners and parties were mentioned constantly in my workshop by the Germans and certain of the Spaniards, and every night one of my creations would make an appearance in his drawing rooms. Campaigns to promote Germany’s reputation appeared with increasing frequency in the press, too. They used showy advertisements that displayed gas engines and fabric dyes with equal enthusiasm. The propaganda was incessant, merging ideas and products, persuading readers that the German ideology was capable of making advances that were unattainable to the world’s other countries. The apparently commercial pretext of the advertisements didn’t hide the real message: Germany was ready to dominate the planet, and they wanted to make this known to their good friends in Spain. And just so that there should be no doubt, they would often include in their propaganda some visually striking drawings, large lettering, and attractive maps of Europe in which Germany and the Iberian Peninsula were connected by means of bold arrows, while Great Britain appeared to have been swallowed up into the center of the earth.

In the pharmacies, cafés, and barbershops people passed around satirical magazines and books of crosswords that were gifts from the Germans; the jokes and stories were mixed up with accounts of victorious military operations, and the correct solution to all the puzzles was always politically inclined, and in favor of the Nazi cause. And there were also informational leaflets for professionals, adventure stories for young people and children, and even the parish newsletters of hundreds of churches. People also said that the streets were full of Spanish moles who’d been brought in by the Germans to disseminate propaganda directly to the people at tram stops and on lines in shops and cinemas. The messages were sometimes reasonably believable, at other times utter nonsense. There were malicious rumors flying back and forth that always spoke unfavorably of the British and those who supported them. That they were stealing the Spaniards’ olive oil and taking it in diplomatic cars to Gibraltar. That the flour donated by the American Red Cross was so bad that it was making the Spanish people sick. That there was no fish to be had in the markets because our fishermen had been detained by ships from the British navy. That the quality of the bread was so terrible because His Majesty’s subjects were sinking the Argentine ships that were carrying the wheat. That the Americans, in collaboration with the Russians, were putting finishing touches on their plans for an imminent invasion of the Peninsula.

The British, meanwhile, didn’t fail to respond. Their reaction consisted mainly of finding every possible way to blame the Spanish regime for all the people’s calamities, in particular striking them where it hurt most: the scarcity of food; the ravenous hunger that led people to make themselves sick eating filth from the trash; whole families running along desperately behind charity trucks; mothers having to manage, God only knows how, to make fritters without oil, omelets without eggs, sweets without sugar, and a strange sausage without a shred of pork and tasting suspiciously of cod. In order to strengthen the Spaniards’ sympathy for the Allies’ cause, the English sharpened their wits, too. The embassy’s press office in Madrid drafted a homemade publication that the civil servants themselves worked diligently to hand out on the streets close to the legation, with the young press officer, Tom Burns, leading the way. The British Institute had been started up not long before, headed by one Walter Starkie, an Irish Catholic whom some people nicknamed Don Gitano. It had been opened, apparently, without any authorization from the Spanish authorities but with the genuine—albeit already weakened—support of Beigbeder, in the final throes of his time as a minister. It gave every appearance of being a cultural center that taught English and organized conferences, salons, and various other events, some of them more social than purely intellectual. But apparently it was at its core an undercover British propaganda operation that was much more sophisticated than the German one.

And so winter passed in this way, tense and full of hard work for almost everyone, countries and people alike. Then suddenly, without my even being aware of it, spring was upon us. With it came a new invitation from my father: the Zarzuela Hippodrome, the racecourse, was opening its doors—why didn’t I go along with him?

When I was just a young apprentice at Doña Manuela’s, we used to hear constant references to the Hippodrome, which our clients frequented. I don’t suppose many of the ladies were interested in the racing itself, but just like the horses, they too were in competition. If not for speed, for elegance. In those days the old Hippodrome had been located at the end of the Paseo de la Castellana, and it was a social meeting place for the haute bourgeoisie, the aristocracy, and even royalty, with Alfonso XIII often to be seen in the royal box. Shortly before the war, work began on a new, more modern facility, but the conflict brought the project to an abrupt stop. After two years of peace, it was now—albeit still only half finished—opening its doors on the El Pardo hill.

For weeks, the opening was announced in the headlines and spread by word of mouth. My father came to fetch me in his car; he enjoyed driving. On the journey he explained to me just how the Hippodrome had been built with its innovative wavy roof and spoke about the enthusiasm of thousands of Madrileños to get back to the old races. I in turn described my recollections of the riding club in Tetouan, the imposing bearing of the caliph crossing the Plaza de España on horseback on Fridays, going from his palace to the mosque. We went on talking at such length that he didn’t have time to warn me that we would be meeting anyone else that afternoon. It wasn’t till we arrived at our seats that I realized that by attending that apparently innocent event, I’d just stepped of my own free will directly into the very jaws of the wolf.