The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Sixty-Three

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I fell back into my seat, my head filling with the scenes of the previous days as if on a cinema screen. As I recalled the events and settings, I wondered how many of the characters from that strange film would make another appearance in my life, and which ones I would never see again. I reminded myself how each of the strands of the drama had ended: a few of them happily; most, inconclusively. And when the reel was about to end, everything filled with that final scene: the kiss from Manuel Da Silva. I could still taste it in my mouth, but I felt unable to find an adjective to describe it. Spontaneous, passionate, cynical, sensual. Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none.

I sat up in my seat and looked through the window, already being rocked by the gentle clatter of the train. The last lights of Lisbon sped past my eyes, becoming less and less dense, more diffuse, thinning out further and further until the landscape was filled with darkness. I got up; I needed some air. It was time for dinner.

I went into the restaurant car, which was already almost filled with people, as well as the smell of food, the noise of cutlery and conversations. It only took the staff a few minutes to seat me; I chose from the menu and ordered some wine to celebrate my freedom. Killing time while I waited to be served, I thought ahead to my arrival in Madrid and pictured Hillgarth’s reaction when he learned the results of my mission. He probably never imagined that it would end up being so productive.

The food and wine arrived quickly, but by the time they did I already knew for certain that the dinner wasn’t going to be a particularly pleasant one. Luck had decided to position me close to a couple of coarse-looking individuals who didn’t stop staring at me quite brazenly from the moment I’d sat down. Two rough guys who didn’t fit the tranquil setting that surrounded us. They had a couple of bottles of wine on their table and a crowd of dishes that they were devouring as though the world were set to end that very night. I barely enjoyed my bacalhau à brás; the linen tablecloth, the engraved glass, and the formal attentiveness of the waiters were all quickly relegated to secondary importance. My priority had become gulping down my food as quickly as possible in order to get back to my cabin and escape from that unwelcome company.

I found the curtains drawn and the bed made, everything ready for the night. Bit by bit the train was calming down and falling silent; almost without noticing it we would be leaving Portugal and crossing the border. I realized how little I’d been sleeping. I’d spent the early hours of the day transcribing messages, and the previous morning I’d been visiting Rosalinda. My poor body needed a break, so I decided to go to bed right away.

I opened my hand luggage, but I didn’t have time to take anything out of it because a call from the door made me stop.

“Tickets,” I heard. I opened the door cautiously and checked that it was indeed the ticket collector. But I also realized that, though he probably didn’t even know it himself, he wasn’t alone in the corridor. Behind the conscientious railway worker, just a few feet away, I could make out two shadows swaying to the rhythm of the train. Two shadows that were unmistakable: the two men who’d unsettled me during dinner.

The moment the ticket collector had finished his task I bolted the door shut, planning not to open it again until we arrived in Madrid. The last thing I wanted after the tough times I’d had in Lisbon was a couple of uncouth travelers with nothing more to do than spend the night bothering me. So at last I readied myself for bed; I was exhausted, both physically and mentally; I needed to forget everything, even if it was only for a couple of hours.

I began to take everything I needed out of my hand luggage: the toothbrush, a soap dish, my night cream. A few minutes later I noticed that the train was slowing down: we were approaching a station, the first on the journey. I drew open the little curtain that covered the window. “Entroncamento,” I read.

Just a few seconds later, there was another knock at my door. Hard, insistent. It didn’t sound like the ticket collector. I stayed quite still, my back to the door, with no intention of answering. I guessed that it was the men from the restaurant car, and there was no way I was going to open up for them.

But they knocked again. Harder than before. And then I heard my name on the other side. And I recognized the voice.

I drew back the bolt.

“You’ve got to get off the train. Da Silva has two men on board. They’ve come for you.”

“The hat?”

“The hat.”