The Time in Between: A Novel (17 page)

“But first there’s something else we have to do, honey; let’s get to work.”

I obeyed without a word, allowing her to direct the situation. Without a thought she pulled the top sheet off my bed and brought it to her mouth. With a fierce bite she tore off the top hem and then began to rip the material, tearing a strip a couple of hand spans wide.

“Do the same thing with the bottom sheet,” she commanded. Between teeth and tearing it took us only a few minutes to reduce the sheets off my bed to a couple of dozen long strips of cotton. “And now, what we’re going to do is tie these strips around your body to hold the pistols. Raise your arms, I’m doing the first one.”

And so, without my even taking off my nightdress, the nineteen revolvers were attached around me, bandaged firmly with the strips of bedsheet. Each strip was for one pistol: first Candelaria would wrap the weapon in a folded-over piece of the fabric, then she’d put it against my body and go around me two or three times with the band. And finally she’d tie the ends tight.

“You’re all skin and bones, girl, you don’t have any meat left on you where I can tie the next one,” she said, having completely covered me front and back.

“My thighs,” I suggested.

And so she did, until—spread out under my chest and over my ribs,
kidneys, shoulder blades, sides, arms, hips, and thighs—all of the cargo had finally been accommodated. I was like a mummy, covered in white bandages that made all my movements difficult, but that I’d have to learn to move around in right away.

“Put these on, they’re Jamila’s,” she said, placing at my feet some worn brownish-colored leather slippers. “And now the haik,” she added, holding up the large white linen cloak. “That’s it, wrap yourself up right to the head, and let me see how that looks on you.”

She looked at me with a half smile.

“Perfect, just another little Moorish girl. Before leaving, don’t forget, you’ve also got to arrange the veil over your face so it covers your mouth and nose. Come on, then, let’s go out, I’ve got to explain quickly to you where you’re going.”

I started to walk with difficulty, finding it hard to move my body at a normal pace. The pistols were heavy as lead and forced me to keep my legs apart and my arms away from my sides. We went out into the corridor, Candelaria walking ahead and me moving clumsily behind her; a big white bulk that bumped into the walls, the furniture, and the door jambs. Without noticing I knocked into a shelf, throwing its contents onto the floor: a plate from Talavera, an unlit oil lamp, and a sepia-colored portrait of some relative of Candelaria’s. The glass and porcelain shattered as soon as they hit the floor tiles, and the noise made the mattress springs creak in the four adjacent rooms as the sleeping guests were disturbed.

“What’s happened?” shouted the fat mother from her bed.

“Nothing, I just dropped a glass of water. Everyone back to sleep,” replied Candelaria with finality.

I tried to reach down to pick up the mess, but I couldn’t bend my body.

“Leave it, girl, leave it, I’ll sort it out later,” she said, moving some bits of glass aside with her foot.

And then, unexpectedly, a door opened just ten feet away from us. We were met by the curler-covered head of Fernanda, one of the aged sisters. Before she had the chance to ask us what had happened and what a Moorish woman in a haik was doing knocking over the furniture
in the corridor at that hour of the morning, Candelaria launched a dart at her that rendered her mute and unable to react.

“If you don’t get back to bed this instant, when I wake up tomorrow I’ll tell Sagrario you’ve been seeing the assistant from the dispensary on Fridays in the
cornisa.
”

Fear that her pious sister should learn of her amours was more powerful than her curiosity, and without a word Fernanda slipped like an eel back into her bedroom.

“Onward, honey, it’s getting late,” the Matutera said in a commanding whisper. “Better if no one sees you coming out of this house; you never know if Palomares is around, and then we’d be screwed from the start. So we’ll go out the back.”

We went out onto the little patio behind the building and were greeted by the black night, as well as a twisted vine, a pile of junk, and the telegraph man’s old bicycle. We remained hidden in a corner and began speaking in low voices.

“Now what do I do?” I murmured.

She seemed to have everything well thought out and spoke firmly.

“You go up onto this bench and climb over the wall, but you’ve got to do it very carefully. If not, you’re going to get the haik tangled between your legs and find yourself face-first on the ground.”

I looked at the wall, which was about six feet high, and the smaller adjacent one I’d have to scale to get to the top and be able to jump down to the other side. Preferring not to wonder whether I’d be capable of doing it encumbered by the weight of the pistols and wrapped in all that cloth, I simply asked for further instructions. “And from there?”

“When you’ve jumped, you’ll be in the yard behind Don Leandro’s grocery store; from there, if you climb onto the boxes and barrels he’s got scattered about, you can easily get into the next yard, which is behind the pastry shop of Menahen the Jew. There, at the back, you’ll find a little wooden door that’ll let you out into a side alley, which is where the sacks of flour come in for the bakery. Once you’re outside, forget who you are. Cover yourself up well, hunch yourself over, and get walking toward the Jewish neighborhood, and from there, you go into the Moorish quarter. But take care, girl: don’t rush, and stay close to
the wall, dragging your feet a little as though you were an old woman, so that no one will see you walking too nicely and some undesirable won’t try something. There are a lot of young Spanish lads who can get captivated by the charms of the Muslim women.”

“And then?”

“When you get to the Moorish quarter, walk around the streets a few times just to be sure that no one’s watching or following you. If you meet anyone, change your route cleverly or get as far away from them as you can. After a bit, come back out of Puerta de la Luneta and head down to the park—you know where I mean, right?”

“I think so,” I said, struggling to map the route in my mind.

“Once you’re there you’ll find yourself opposite the station: cross the Ceuta road and go in wherever you find it open, slowly and well concealed. Most likely there won’t be anyone there but a couple of half-asleep soldiers who won’t pay you the slightest attention. You’ll probably find some Moroccans waiting for the train to Ceuta; the Christians won’t start arriving till later.”

“What time does the train go?”

“Half past seven. But the Moors, as you know, have quite a different rhythm to their schedules, so nobody will find it strange that you’re wandering around there at six in the morning.”

“And should I board the train, too, or what do I do?”

Candelaria took a few seconds to reply, and I guessed that her plan hadn’t been plotted out much further.

“No, in theory you don’t need to take the train. When you reach the station, sit down for a little bit on the bench under the timetable board, let them see you there, and that way they’ll know that it’s you who’s got the merchandise.”

“Who is it that has to see me?”

“Don’t worry about that: whoever has to see you will see you. After twenty minutes, get up off the bench, go to the café, and find some way for the man working behind the counter to tell you where you are to leave the pistols.”

“That’s it?” I asked in alarm. “And if the café man isn’t there, or if he ignores me, or if I can’t speak to him, what do I do?”

“Ssssshhhh. Don’t raise your voice, they’ll hear us. Don’t you worry, somehow you’ll find out what you have to do,” she said impatiently, unable to imbue her words with the reassurance that was evidently needed. Then she decided to level with me. “Look, child, everything’s gone so bad tonight that they couldn’t tell me more than that: the pistols have to be at the station at six in the morning; the person carrying them has to sit for twenty minutes under the timetable board; and the café man is the one who will tell you how to make the delivery. More than that I don’t know, my child, and I’m really sorry about that. But don’t worry, precious, you’ll see how once you’re there everything will work itself out.”

I wanted to say I doubted it very much, but her worried face warned me not to. For the first time since I’d known her, the Matutera’s resolve and her tenacity in finding ingenious solutions to the muddiest situations seemed to have hit rock bottom. But I knew that if she’d been in a position to act herself, she wouldn’t have been afraid: she’d have managed to get to the station and do what was required using whatever wiles she had at hand. The problem was that this time Candelaria was tied hand and foot, immobilized in her house by the threat of a police search that might or might not happen that night. And I knew that if I wasn’t able to respond and take a firm grip on the reins, it would all be over for us. So I summoned up some strength from nowhere and armed myself with courage.

“You’re right, Candelaria: I’ll find a way, don’t worry about it. But first, tell me one thing.”

“Whatever you want, child, but move fast, it’s less than two hours to go till six,” she added, trying to disguise her relief at seeing me ready to keep fighting.

“Where will the guns end up? Who are these men from Larache?”

“You don’t care about that, girl. What matters is that they arrive when and where they’re supposed to; that you leave the merchandise where you’re told to and collect the money they have to give you: nine thousand five hundred pesetas, remember that, and count the notes one by one. Then you return in a flash. I’ll be waiting here holding my breath . . . ”

“We’re taking a huge risk, Candelaria,” I insisted. “At least let me know who it is we’re dealing with.”

She sighed deeply and her chest, barely half covered by the smock she’d thrown over herself at the last minute, rose and fell again as though under the influence of a pump.

“They’re Masons,” she whispered in my ear, as though afraid of pronouncing a curse. “They were supposed to arrive tonight in a van from Larache, most likely they’re already hiding out near Buselmal Springs or in some vegetable garden on the Río Martín plain. They come through the villages, they don’t dare travel on the main roads. They’ll probably pick the guns up wherever you leave them and won’t even get on the train. I’d say they’ll probably return to their city directly from the station, going back through the villages again and avoiding Tetouan completely; that is, if they aren’t caught first, God forbid. But anyway, that’s just a guess, because the truth is I haven’t a goddamn clue what these men are up to.”

She sighed deeply, looking out into the emptiness, and then went on in a low voice.

“What I do know, child, because everyone else knows it, too, is that those involved in the uprising have violently taken their anger out on anyone who has anything to do with Freemasonry. Some of them were shot in the head during their own meetings; the lucky ones fled as fast as they could to Tangiers or the French zone. Others were taken to El Mogote and someday they’ll be shot and never heard from again. And probably there are a few hiding in cellars, lofts, and storerooms, afraid that one day someone will betray them and they will be beaten out of their sanctuaries with rifle butts. That’s why I couldn’t find anyone at first who would dare buy the merchandise. After asking around I managed to get hold of the contact in Larache, and that’s how I know that’s where the pistols will end up.”

Then she looked me in the eyes, serious and dark like I’d never seen her before.

“Things are ugly, child, very ugly,” she said through clenched teeth. “There’s no pity here, no consideration, and anyone who’s worth anything gets taken away before you can say amen. Many poor wretches
have already died, decent people who never killed a fly. Be very careful, honey; you’re not going to be the next one.”

Again I drew a crumb of good cheer out of nowhere, so that the two of us might convince ourselves of something even I didn’t believe.

“Don’t worry, Candelaria; you’ll see, we’ll get out of this somehow.”

And without another word, I made my way to the bench and began climbing with that sinister cargo strapped to my skin. I left the Matutera behind me, watching from beneath as she made the sign of the cross amid whispers and vines: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, may the Virgin of Miracles go with you, my angel. The last thing I heard was a noisy kiss she gave to her fingers at the end of the ritual. One second later I disappeared behind the garden wall and fell like a bundle into the grocer’s yard.

___________

I
reached the way out of baker Menahen’s in less than five minutes. In the process I caught myself several times on nails and splinters that were impossible to see in the darkness. I grazed my wrist, tripped on the haik, slipped, and nearly lost my balance as I climbed up a huge pile of boxes stored in a disordered heap against a wall. Once I’d reached the door, the first thing I did was to arrange the haik so that all that could be seen of my face were my eyes. Then I slid the rusty bolt, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.

There was no one in the alley, not a shadow or a sound. My only company was the moon, moving freely between the clouds. I started walking slowly, sticking close to the left side, and before long I’d arrived at La Luneta. Before turning onto the street I paused at the corner to determine the lay of the land. Yellowish lights hung from the cables over the road to serve as street lamps. Looking left and right, I was able to recognize some of the establishments—now asleep—in which chaotic life went on during the day: the Hotel Victoria, Zurita Pharmacy, Levante Bar where they would often sing flamenco, Galindo the tobacconist’s, and a salt depository; the Teatro Nacional, the Indian bazaars, four or five taverns whose names I didn’t know, La Perla Jeweler’s, which belonged to the Cohen brothers, and La Espiga de Oro,
where we’d go every morning to buy our bread. All of them silent, closed, peaceful as the dead.