The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Sixty-Two

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The first-class carriage, cabin number eight,” I said.

“Are you sure?” asked Manuel.

I showed him the ticket.

“Perfect. I’ll go with you.”

“There’s really no need.”

He ignored me.

The suitcases I’d arrived in Lisbon with were now joined by several hatboxes and two large traveling bags full of whimsical purchases; everything had left the hotel that afternoon, earlier than planned. The rest of the purchases for the atelier would be arriving in Madrid over the course of the coming days, sent directly by the suppliers. As hand baggage I had just a small bag with the things I would need for the night. And one more thing—a sketchbook filled with information.

As soon as we’d left the car, Manuel insisted on carrying the overnight bag.

“It hardly weighs anything, there’s no need,” I said, trying not to let go of it.

The battle was lost even before I’d begun, and I knew that I couldn’t insist. We went into the main hall of the train station, the most elegant couple of the evening—I wrapped in all my glamour, and he unwittingly carrying the evidence of his betrayal. Santa Apolónia Station, looking like a huge mansion, was receiving the trickle of nighttime travelers bound for Madrid. Couples, families, friends, men traveling alone. Some of them seemed ready to set off with cool indifference, as though leaving something that hadn’t affected them at all; others shed tears, hugged, sighed, made promises for the future that they might never keep. I didn’t fit into either one of those categories: I wasn’t one of the detached, nor one of the sentimental. I was quite different—one of those running away, trying to put some distance between themselves and this place, to dust themselves off and forget what they’d left behind forever.

I’d spent most of the day in my room preparing for my return journey. Supposedly. Yes, I took the clothes down from their hangers, emptied the drawers, and put everything in the suitcases. But that didn’t take me long. I spent the rest of the time dedicated to something more important: transferring all the information I’d gathered at Da Silva’s party into thousands of little pencil-sketched stitches. The task took me many hours. I started on it as soon as I’d arrived back at the hotel in the small hours of the morning, when everything I’d heard was still fresh in my mind; there were so many dozens of details that a lot of it ran the risk of dissolving into oblivion if I didn’t make note immediately. I slept no more than three or four hours; when I woke up, I set about finishing the job. Over the course of the morning and the early afternoon, one piece of information at a time, stitch by stitch, I emptied my head out onto the paper until it made up an arsenal of terse messages. The result comprised more than forty supposed patterns covered in names, numbers, dates, places, and operations, all gathered in the pages of my innocent sketchbook. Patterns for sleeves, cuffs, and backs; for waistbands, body lengths, and fronts; outlines for parts and segments of clothing I would never sew, within whose edges were hidden the details of a grim business transaction intended to facilitate the devastating progress of the German troops.

In the midmorning the telephone rang. The call made me jump, so much so that one of the telegraphic dashes I’d been marking down at that moment was transformed into a harsh twisted stroke that I had to erase.

“Arish? Good morning, it’s Manuel. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Though I was wide awake—showered and alert, having been working for several hours—I contorted my voice to sound sleepy. Under no circumstances could I let him know that what I’d seen and heard the previous night had sent me off into a torrent of nonstop activity.

“Don’t worry, it must be terribly late already . . . ,” I lied.

“Nearly noon. I was just calling to thank you for attending my gathering last night and for behaving the way you did with my friends’ wives.”

“No need to thank me, I had a very pleasant evening, too.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t get bored? Now I feel bad for not having paid you a bit more attention.”

Careful, Sira—be careful. He’s just testing you, I thought. Gamboa, Marcus, the forgotten hat, Bernhardt, the tungsten, Beira, everything was coming together in my head with the coolness of frozen glass, while I kept on faking an untroubled, sleepy voice.

“No, Manuel, really, don’t worry about it. The conversations with your friends’ wives kept me very well entertained.”

“And so what do you have planned for your last day in Portugal?”

“Nothing at all. Taking a long bath and preparing my luggage. I don’t mean to leave the hotel all day.”

I hoped the reply would satisfy him. If Gamboa had informed on me, and he thought I was going around with some man, perhaps a prolonged stay within the hotel walls would dispel his suspicions. Of course, my word wouldn’t be strong enough—he would already be getting someone to watch my room, and perhaps also monitor my telephone conversations, but with the exception of him I had no intention of speaking to anyone today. I’d be a good girl—I wouldn’t move from the hotel, I wouldn’t use the telephone and wouldn’t entertain any visitors. I’d let myself be seen, bored and alone, in the restaurant, at reception, and in the sitting rooms, and when the time came for me to leave I’d do it in full view of all the hotel’s other guests and employees, with only my luggage for company. Or at least that’s what I thought until he made me another proposition.

“Yes, of course, you deserve a rest. But I don’t want you to go without my getting the chance to say good-bye to you first. Let me take you to the station. What time does your train leave?”

“At ten,” I replied. Damn me for wanting to see him again.

“I’ll come by your hotel at nine, then, all right? I’d like to be able to come earlier, but my whole day is going to be busy.”

“Don’t worry, Manuel, I’ll need time to arrange my things, too. I’ll send my luggage on to the station in the early evening, then I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Till nine o’clock, then.”

“Nine o’clock—I’ll be ready.”


Instead of João’s Bentley, I found a dazzling new Aston Martin sports car. I felt a knot of nerves when I realized that the old chauffeur wasn’t anywhere to be seen: the idea that we were alone made me feel unsettled and vulnerable. Manuel didn’t feel the same way, apparently.

I couldn’t see any change in his attitude toward me. He didn’t show the least sign of suspicion; he was just as he’d always been—attentive, pleasant, and seductive, as though his whole world revolved around those rolls of beautiful Macao silk that he’d shown me in his office and had nothing to do with the foul darkness of the tungsten mines. We made our final journey down the coast road, then raced along the streets of Lisbon, making the pedestrians’ heads turn. We were on the platform twenty minutes before the train’s scheduled departure time, and Manuel insisted on boarding the train with me and accompanying me to my cabin. We made our way down the side corridor, me ahead and him behind me, just a step behind, still carrying my little overnight bag in which the proof of his foul enterprise was muddled up with innocent toiletries, cosmetics, and lingerie.

“Number eight, I think this is it,” I announced.

The door opened into an elegant, clean cabin. Wood-paneled walls, curtains open, a chair in place, and the bed not yet made up.

“Well then, my dear Arish, the time has come to say good-bye,” he said, putting my overnight bag down on the floor. “It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you. It’s not going to be at all easy for me to get used to not having you around.”

His feelings seemed genuine; perhaps my speculations about Gamboa’s accusation were unfounded after all. Perhaps I’d been more alarmed than I needed to be. Perhaps he’d never even thought of saying anything to his boss, whose esteem for me remained perfectly intact.

“It’s been an unforgettable visit, Manuel,” I said holding my hands out to him. “It couldn’t have been more satisfactory—my clients are going to be most impressed. And you’ve done so much to make it easy and enjoyable—I don’t know how to thank you.”

He took my hands and held them protected in his. And in exchange received my most dazzling of smiles, a smile that hid a huge desire for the final curtain to fall on that whole farce once and for all. In just a few minutes the stationmaster would blow his whistle and lower his little flag, and the Lusitania Express would begin to roll along the tracks, getting farther and farther from the Atlantic toward the center of the Peninsula. And I would be leaving Manuel Da Silva and his dark dealings, vibrant Lisbon, and that whole universe of strangers behind me forever.

The final travelers were hurrying onto the train; every few seconds we had to step aside to let someone past, leaning back against the carriage walls.

“Best for you to go, Manuel.”

“I think so, yes I ought to go now.”

The moment to bring that pantomime farewell to an end had arrived, time to enter my cabin and resume my privacy. All I needed was for him to vanish, and everything else was all set. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt his left hand on the back of my neck, his right arm around my shoulders and the hot, strange taste of his mouth on mine and a shudder running right down my body from my head to my toes. It was an intense kiss; a long, powerful kiss that left me confused, disarmed, and unable to react.

“Bon voyage, Arish.”

I wasn’t able to respond; he didn’t give me enough time. Before I was able to find the right words, he was gone.