The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Fifty-One

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Manuel Da Silva was waiting for me at the hotel bar. The place was busy: groups, couples, men on their own. No sooner had I gone in through the double doors than I knew which one was him. And he knew me.

Thin and elegant, dark, with his temples beginning to go silver and wearing a light dinner jacket. Carefully tended hands, dark eyes, elegant gestures. He did indeed have the bearing and the manners of a Don Juan. But there was something more to him than that: something I could tell the moment we exchanged our first greeting and he ushered me onto the terrace overlooking the garden. Something that put me instantly on my guard. Intelligence. Wisdom. Determination. Worldliness. To deceive a man like that I’d need a whole lot more than a few charming smiles and an arsenal of flirtatious gestures.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am not to be able to have dinner with you, but as I said on the phone I have a prior engagement that was arranged weeks ago,” he said as he gallantly held the back of my chair.

“Don’t worry in the slightest,” I replied, settling myself with feigned languor. The saffron-colored gauze of my dress almost brushed against the floor; with a studied gesture I flicked my hair back over my bare shoulders and crossed my legs to reveal an ankle, the arch of a foot, and the pointed tip of a shoe. I noticed how Da Silva didn’t take his eyes off me for a second. “Besides,” I added, “I’m a little tired after the journey; it’d do me good to get an early night.”

A waiter positioned the champagne bucket beside us and placed two glasses on the table. The terrace looked out over a luxuriant garden filled with trees and plants; it was getting dark, but it was still possible to make out the last glimmers from the sun. A light breeze reminded us that the sea was very close. It smelled of flowers, of French perfume, of salt and greenery. There was a piano playing inside, and from the nearby tables came relaxed conversations in a variety of languages. The dry, dusty Madrid that I’d left behind me less than twenty-four hours earlier suddenly seemed like a dark nightmare from another world.

“I have a confession to make,” said my host once the glasses had been filled.

“As you wish,” I replied, bringing mine to my lips.

“You’re the first Moroccan woman I’ve met in my whole life. This area is full of foreigners at the moment, of a thousand different nationalities, but they all come from Europe.”

“You’ve never been in Morocco?”

“No. And I wish I had; especially if all the Moroccan women are like you.”

“It’s a fascinating country with marvelous people, but I’m afraid you’d find it hard to find many women like me there. I’m an atypical Moroccan, because my mother is Spanish. I’m not Muslim, and my mother tongue isn’t Arabic but Spanish. But I adore Morocco: that’s where my family lives, too, and that’s where I have my house and my friends. Though I’m living in Madrid at the moment.”

I drank again, satisfied at not having had to lie any more than necessary. Brazen falsehoods had become a constant in my life, but I felt safer when I didn’t need to have excessive recourse to them.

“Your Spanish is excellent, too,” I noted.

“I’ve worked a lot with Spaniards; actually, my father had a Spanish business partner for many years. Before the war—the Spanish war, that is—I used to go to Madrid on business often; lately I’ve been concentrating more on other dealings and I travel less to Spain.”

“It’s probably not the best time.”

“That depends,” he said with a touch of irony. “It would seem that things are going very well for you.”

I smiled again, wondering what the hell they’d been telling him about me.

“I see you’re well informed.”

“I do my best.”

“Well, yes, I must admit, my little business hasn’t been doing badly at all. Actually that’s why I’m here, as you know.”

“To take the best materials back to Spain for the new season.”

“Indeed, that’s my plan. I’ve heard that you have some wonderful Chinese silks.”

“Do you want to know the truth?” he asked with a wink of pretend complicity.

“Yes, please,” I said, lowering my voice and playing along.

“Well, the truth is, I have no idea,” he explained with a laugh. “I don’t have the slightest idea of what the silks we’re importing from Macao are like; I don’t deal with them directly. The textile sector . . .”

A slender young man with a thin mustache, perhaps his secretary, approached discreetly, excusing himself in Portuguese, and came up to his left ear, whispering a few words I wasn’t able to hear. I pretended to be looking out into the night that was falling over the garden. The white spheres of the street lamps had just been lit, the animated conversations and the piano chords still floated through the air. But my mind, far from relaxing in that paradise, remained alert to what was happening between the two men. I guessed that this interruption was something they had planned in advance: that way if he wasn’t enjoying my presence, Da Silva would have an excuse to make an immediate disappearance, justifying himself with some unexpected matter that needed taking care of. If, however, he decided I was worth spending his time with, he could acknowledge the fact and dismiss the new arrival without any further fuss.

To my good fortune, he chose the latter.

“As I was saying,” he went on once his assistant had left, “I don’t deal directly with the fabrics we import; that is, I keep myself informed about the facts and figures, but I don’t know about the aesthetic matters that I presume will be of interest to you.”

“Perhaps you have an employee who might be able to help me,” I suggested.

“Yes, of course; my staff is extremely efficient. But I’d like to look after you myself.”

“I wouldn’t want to cause you any—” I interrupted.

He didn’t let me finish.

“It would be a pleasure to be able to assist you,” he said, gesturing to the waiter to refill our glasses. “How long did you mean to stay with us?”

“A couple of weeks. Apart from the materials, I’d like to make the most of my trip to visit some other suppliers, perhaps some designers’ studios. And shops, too: for shoes, hats, lingerie, notions . . . In Spain, as I’m sure you know, it’s barely possible to find anything decent these days.”

“I’ll give you all the contacts you need, you can count on that. Let me think: tomorrow morning I’m going on a short trip, I’m sure it’ll be a matter of a couple of days, no more than that. Would meeting on Thursday morning suit you?”

“Of course, but I must insist, I really don’t want to trouble you . . .”

He sat forward in his chair and leaned over, looking me straight in the eye.

“You could never be any trouble.”

That’s what you think, I thought, quick as a flash. My mouth, however, was fixed in a smile.

We went on chatting about trivialities; ten minutes, maybe fifteen. When I calculated that it was time to bring the meeting to an end I faked a yawn and immediately mumbled an embarrassed apology. “I’m so sorry. The overnight train was exhausting.”

“I’ll let you get some rest then,” he said, getting up.

“And besides, you have a dinner.”

“Ah yes, the dinner, that’s right.” He didn’t even bother to look at his watch. “I suppose they’ll be waiting for me,” he added reluctantly. I could tell he was lying. Or perhaps not.

As we walked over to the entrance lobby, he greeted various people we passed, switching languages with incredible ease. A handshake here, a pat on the shoulder there; an affectionate kiss on the cheek of a frail old lady who looked like an Egyptian mummy, and a mischievous wink at two showy women overloaded with jewels from head to toe.

“Estoril is full of old cockatoos who used to be rich and aren’t any longer,” he whispered in my ear, “but they cling to yesterday tooth and nail, preferring to live on bread and sardines rather than sell what little they have left of their faded glory. You can see them with all their pearls and diamonds, wrapped in minks and ermines even in the height of summer, but they’re carrying handbags filled with cobwebs that haven’t seen a single escudo for months.”

The simple elegance of my dress fitted perfectly with our surroundings, and he made sure that everyone around us noticed it. He didn’t introduce me to anyone, nor did he tell me who anyone was: he just walked beside me, keeping to my pace, as though he were my escort: ever attentive, showing me off.

As we headed toward the exit I quickly weighed the result of the meeting. Manuel Da Silva had come to greet me, to invite me to a glass of champagne, and above all to measure me up: to evaluate with his own eyes just how far it was worth making the effort to take personal charge of the request that had come from Madrid. Someone via someone at the request of someone else had asked him as a favor to look after me, but there were two possible ways of doing that. One was by delegating: getting me looked after by some competent employee while he spared himself the obligation. The other required his own involvement. His time was worth gold dust, and he undoubtedly had countless commitments. The fact that he had offered to look after my insignificant needs himself suggested that my assignment was progressing along the right lines.

“I’ll get in touch as soon as I can.”

He held out his hand in farewell.

“A thousand thanks, Senhor Da Silva,” I said, offering mine. Not one hand, both of them.

“Please call me Manuel,” he said. I noticed that he held my hands a few seconds longer than was necessary.

“In that case, I’ll have to be Arish.”

“Good night, Arish. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you. Till we meet again, then, have some rest and enjoy our country.”

I went into the elevator and held his gaze until the two golden doors began to close, progressively narrowing my view of the lobby. Manuel Da Silva remained in front of them until he—first his shoulders, then his ears and neck, and finally his nose—disappeared as well.

When I was sure that I was beyond the reach of his gaze and we were beginning our ascent, I sighed so deeply that the young elevator attendant seemed about to ask if I was all right. The first step of my mission had just been completed: I’d passed the test.