The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Fifty-Eight

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Like every afternoon at that hour, the hotel lobby was lively and crowded. Filled with foreigners, ladies with pearls and men in linen suits or in uniform; filled with conversation, with the smell of expensive tobacco and the movement of bustling bellhops. And most likely filled with some undesirable types, too. One of them was there to meet me. Although I faked a reaction of surprised delight, I felt my skin crawl when I saw him. To look at him, he was just the same Manuel Da Silva of the previous days: sure of himself in his perfect suit, his first white hairs giving a sign of his forthcoming maturity, alert and smiling. Just seeing him provoked such revulsion in me that I had to curb my impulse to turn around and run. Out onto the street, to the beach, to the end of the world. Anywhere far from him. Before, everything had been mere suspicion; there had still been room to hope that beneath that attractive appearance was a decent human being. I knew now that that wasn’t the case, that regrettably the worst predictions had been correct. The Hillgarths’ assumptions had been confirmed in the church meeting: integrity and loyalty don’t go well with business during wartime, and Da Silva had sold himself to the Germans. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’d made a sinister addition to the deal: if his old friends bothered him, he’d have to get rid of them. Remembering that Marcus was among them gave me a jolt in the gut all over again.

My body was begging to run away from him but I couldn’t do it: not only because a heavy load of trunks and suitcases was momentarily blocking the hotel’s large revolving door, but for other much more forceful reasons. I’d just learned that twenty-four hours from now Da Silva was planning to wine and dine his German contacts. No doubt that was the meeting that Hillgarth’s wife had predicted, and it would probably be there that all the detailed information that the English were so keen to learn would be circulating. My next aim would be to try by any means to get myself invited to attend, but time wasn’t on my side. I had no choice but to rush ahead.

“My condolences, my dear Arish.”

It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what he was referring to. He probably attributed my silence to the fact that I was moved.

“Thank you,” I murmured when the penny dropped. “My father wasn’t a Christian, but I like to honor his memory with a few minutes of religious devotion.”

“Do you feel like a drink? Maybe it’s not a good time, but I heard you’ve been by my office a couple of times and I’ve just come to return the visit. Please excuse my repeated absence: I’ve been traveling much more than I’d like lately.”

“I think a drink would do me good, thank you, it’s been a long day. And yes, I did stop by your office, but just to say hello; everything else has been going perfectly.” Plucking up all my courage, I managed to polish off the sentence with a smile.

We made our way out to the terrace where we’d sat on that first night and everything returned to how it had been. Or almost. All the props were the same; the palm trees moved by the breeze, the ocean in the background, the silver moon, and the champagne at just the right temperature. And yet there was something not quite right with the scene. Something that had nothing to do with me, or the setting. I watched Manuel as he greeted the patrons around us again, and then I realized that it was he who was jarring in the middle of the harmony: he wasn’t behaving naturally. He was trying hard to be charming, and as usual deploying the whole catalog of friendly phrases and amiable expressions, but no sooner had the person he was addressing turned away than his mouth adopted a serious, determined grimace that automatically disappeared again the moment he turned his focus back on me.

“So you’ve bought more material . . .”

“And also thread, accessories, ornaments, and a million notions.”

“Your clients are going to be delighted.”

“The Germans especially.”

Now I’d thrown a stone into a pool of still water—it had to draw a response from him: this was my last chance to get myself invited to his house; if I couldn’t do it, the mission would be over. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“The German ladies are my most demanding clients, the ones who really appreciate quality,” I explained. “The Spaniards are concerned with the final look of the piece, but the Germans concentrate on the perfection of every little detail; they’re much more exacting. Fortunately I’ve been able to conform to their wishes and we get along without any problem. I think I’ve actually got a gift for keeping them happy,” I said, finishing off my sentence with a mischievous wink.

I brought the glass to my lips and had to force myself not to drain the whole thing in one go. Come on, Manuel, come on, I thought. React—invite me. I could be useful to you, I could entertain your guests’ companions while you negotiate over the spit of the wolf and find out how to get the English off your back.

“There are a lot of Germans in Madrid, too, aren’t there?” he asked.

It wasn’t an innocent question about the social environment of a neighboring country: it was a genuine interest in who my acquaintances were and what sort of relationship I had with them. He was coming closer. I knew what I had to say, which words to use: certain key names, weighty posts, and a feigned air of detachment.

“Oh, so many,” I went on dully. I sat back in my chair, dropping my hand with an apparent lack of interest; I crossed my legs again, had another sip. “It was Baroness von Stohrer, the ambassador’s wife, who made that comment last time she was in my studio, that Madrid had become the perfect German colony. And the truth is, some of them bring us a huge amount of work; Elsa Bruckmann, for example, who they say is a personal friend of Hitler’s, she’s in two or three times a week. And at the most recent party at Hans Lazar’s house—he’s the attaché for press and propaganda . . .”

I alluded to a couple of trivial anecdotes and dropped a few more names. With apparent unconcern, as though not finding them particularly important. And the more I spoke with feigned uninterest, the more I noticed Da Silva hanging on my words as though the whole world around him had stopped. He barely noticed the greetings that came at him from both sides, didn’t pick up his glass from the table, and allowed his cigarette to burn away between his fingers, the ash forming a fat grey worm at the tip. Until I decided to stop increasing the pressure.

“I’m sorry, Manuel; I’m sure this is all terribly boring for you: the parties, clothing, and frivolity of women with nothing to do. Tell me, how was your trip?”

Our conversation went on for another half hour, during which time neither he nor I mentioned the Germans again. Their scent, however, seemed still to be lingering in the air.

“I think it’s approaching dinnertime,” he said, looking at his watch. “Would you like . . . ?”

“I’m worn out. Would you mind if we left it for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow won’t be possible.” I noticed him hesitating a moment and held my breath; then he went on. “I have an engagement.”

Go on, go on, go on. All it needed was a little push.

“What a shame, it will be our last night.” My disappointment seemed genuine, almost as genuine as my desire to hear him say what I’d been waiting for over so many days. “I’ve arranged to go back to Madrid on Friday; there’s an awful lot of work waiting for me next week. Baroness de Petrino, Lazar’s wife, is hosting a reception next Thursday and I’ve got half a dozen German clients who want me to—”

“Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

I thought my heart had stopped beating.

“It’s just a little get-together of a few friends. Germans and Portuguese. At my house.”