The Time in Between: A Novel (24 page)

He looked at me again with those eyes like drills, and I knew then that my luck was balanced at exactly the midpoint between survival and being cast into the abyss. Like a coin that’s been thrown into the
air, with equal odds of landing heads or tails, or a clumsy tightrope walker on the wire, as likely to end up on the floor as to remain suspended. Or a tennis ball served by the model in the picture my neighbor sketched, an unlucky shot propelled by a graceful player dressed in Schiaparelli: a ball that doesn’t cross the court but rather stops for the eternity of a few seconds on the edge of the net before tumbling one way or the other, unsure whether to grant the point to the glamorous tennis player sketched in pastels or her anonymous opponent. Salvation on one side, total collapse on the other, and me in the middle. That’s how I saw myself in front of Commissioner Vázquez on that autumn morning. I closed my eyes, breathed in through my nose. Then I opened my eyes again and spoke.

“Listen, Don Claudio: you advised me to get some work, and that’s what I’m doing. This is a decent business, not a fleeting pastime nor a cover for something unsavory. You have a lot of information about me: you know why I’m here, the reasons for my fall, and the circumstances that prevent me from leaving. But you don’t know where I’ve come from and where I want to go, and now, if you’ll allow me, I’m going to tell you. I come from a humble home: my mother was single, raised me on her own. As for my father, the father who gave me the money and jewels that were largely responsible for my misfortune, I didn’t learn about him until several months ago. I knew nothing of him until one day he suddenly got the idea into his head that he was going to be murdered for political reasons, and when he stopped to measure up his past, he decided to recognize me as his daughter and bequeath me a part of his inheritance. Until then, however, I hadn’t even known his name, nor had I enjoyed a single wretched cent of his fortune. So I started working at a young age. At first my duties were nothing more than making deliveries and sweeping the floor for a pittance, as I was still a child. I was the same age as those girls in their Milagrosa school uniforms who just passed by on the street; maybe one of them was your own daughter on her way to school, that world of nuns, penmanship, and Latin declensions, which I never had the chance to master because in our house I had to learn a trade and earn a living. But I was happy to do it, believe it or not: I loved sewing, and I had a knack for it, so
I learned, I tried hard, I persevered and in time became a good seamstress. And if there came a day when I gave it up, it wasn’t on a whim, but because things had become difficult in Madrid with the political situation. A lot of our clients went abroad, the workshop shut down, and I was never able to find more employment.

“I’ve never looked for trouble, Commissioner; everything that’s happened to me this past year, all the crimes I’m supposedly implicated in haven’t come about of my own will, as you know very well, but because one unfortunate day some swine crossed my path. And you cannot even imagine what I’d give to erase that hour when that bastard entered my life, but there’s no going back, and his problems are now my problems, and I know I’ve got to get myself out of them one way or another: that’s my responsibility, and as such I am taking it on. You should know, though, that the only way I can do that is by sewing—I’m not good for anything else. If you shut this door to me, if you cut off these wings, you’ll be suffocating me, because I won’t be able to devote myself to anything else. I’ve tried, but I haven’t found anyone willing to hire me because I have no other skills. So I’m asking you a favor, just one: let me continue with this workshop and don’t investigate any further. Trust in me, don’t bring me down. The rent on this apartment and all the furniture has been paid for, down to the last peseta; I haven’t cheated anyone for them, and I don’t owe anything to anyone. All this business needs is someone to do its work, and that’s what I’m for, ready to give it my all, night and day. Just allow me to work in peace, I won’t create any trouble for you, I swear to you by my mother, who is all I’ve got. And when I finally earn the money I owe in Tangiers, when I’ve settled my debt and the war is over, I’ll go back to her and not trouble you any longer. But until then, I’m asking you, Commissioner, don’t demand any more explanations of me, and let me keep going. This is all I ask of you: take your foot off my neck and don’t suffocate me before I’ve started, because by doing that you will gain nothing and I, meanwhile, will lose everything.”

He didn’t reply, nor did I say another word; we just sat looking at each other. Contrary to all my expectations, I’d managed to get to the end of my speech with my voice still firm and my temper serene,
without falling apart. At last I had got it all out, stripped myself of all the resentment I’d been feeling for so long. Suddenly I felt immensely tired. I was tired of having been stabbed in the back by an unscrupulous bastard, of the months I’d been living in fear, feeling constantly under threat. Tired of carrying around such heavy guilt, burdened down like those unfortunate Moorish women I used to see walking along together slowly, bent over, wrapped in their haiks and dragging their feet, carrying packages and bundles of firewood on their backs, or bunches of dates, little kids, buckets of clay, and sacks of lime. I was fed up with feeling afraid, humiliated; fed up with living such a sad life in that strange land. Tired, drained, exhausted, and yet ready to fight my way out of my ruin tooth and nail.

It was the commissioner who finally broke the silence. First he stood up; I did the same, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles from my skirt. He picked up his hat and turned it around a few times, looking at it with great concentration. It was no longer the soft summer hat of a few months earlier; now it was a dark winter fedora, a fine hat of chocolate-colored felt that he rotated in his hands as though it hid the key to his thoughts. When he had stopped moving it around, he spoke.

“Very well. I accept. If no one comes to me with any evidence, I won’t inquire into how you’ve fixed things to set this all up. From now on I’m going to allow you to work and move your business forward. I’m going to let you live undisturbed. Let’s see if we’re lucky and that keeps trouble away from us both.”

He didn’t say any more, didn’t wait for me to reply. No sooner had he finished speaking than he gave a gesture of farewell with a movement of his jaw and went over to the door.

Five minutes later Frau Heinz arrived. What thoughts went through my head during the time that separated the two of them is something I’ve never been able to remember. The only memory I’ve retained is that when the German woman rang the doorbell and I went over to open it, I felt like the weight of a whole mountain had been lifted from my soul.

TANGIERS IN THE 1930s

___________

O
ver the course of the autumn there were other clients, moneyed foreigners, for the most part—my business partner the Matutera had been correct in her prediction. Several Germans. The occasional Italian. Several Spanish ladies, too, almost always the wives of businessmen, since the administration and the army were going through some stormy times. The occasional rich Jew, Sephardic, beautiful, with her smooth old Spanish in different cadences, speaking Haketia with its melodious rhythm and strange, archaic words.

Bit by bit the business began to flourish, word began to spread. Money was coming in: in Nationalist pesetas, in French and Moroccan francs, in silver hassani currency. I put it all away in a small strongbox under lock and key in the second drawer of my nightstand. On the last day of every month I’d bring the total over to Candelaria. It took the Matutera less time than an
amen!
to separate a handful of pesetas for day-to-day expenses and roll all the rest of the notes into a tight bundle that she would place deftly down her cleavage. With the monthly earnings in the hot refuge of her opulent breasts, she would rush out to see which of the moneychangers would give her the best deal. Not long afterward she would return to the boardinghouse, out of breath and with a thick roll of sterling pounds protected in the same hiding place.
Still catching her breath from all that haste, she would draw the loot out. “Just sticking to what’s reliable, honey, because if you ask me the English are the smartest of the lot. Neither you nor I nor anyone else is going to be saving up Franco’s pesetas, since if the Nationalists end up losing the war, they won’t be any use to us at all, not even to wipe our asses with.” She divided it up fairly—half for me, half for her. “And may we never do without again, my angel.”

I got used to living alone, calm, unafraid. To being responsible for the workshop and myself. I worked a lot, entertained myself little. The volume of orders didn’t require extra hands, so I continued working alone. The activity was incessant nonetheless—threads, scissors, imagination, and an iron. Sometimes I’d go out in search of materials, to stock up on buttons or choose spools of thread and fasteners. I made the most of my Fridays above all: I’d approach the neighboring Plaza de España—the Feddán, the Moors called it—to see the caliph come out of his palace and cross over to the mosque on a white horse, under a green parasol, surrounded by local soldiers in fantastic uniforms, an imposing spectacle. Then I’d usually walk along what was already beginning to be called the Calle del Generalísimo, continuing as far as Plaza de Muley el Mehdi to pass in front of the church of Our Lady of Victories, the Catholic mission, which the war had packed full of prayers and people in mourning.

The war: so far away, and yet so present. From the other side of the Strait we would receive news that came in waves, from the press and by word of mouth. In their homes people would mark out the advances with colored pins on maps fixed to the walls. I learned about what was going on in my country in the solitude of my own home. The only extravagance I allowed myself in those months was to purchase a radio; thanks to this, I learned before the year was out that the government of the Republic had moved to Valencia and left the people to defend Madrid alone. The International Brigades arrived to help the Republicans; Hitler and Mussolini recognized Franco’s legitimacy; Primo de Rivera was executed in Alicante prison; my savings reached eighty pounds; Christmas arrived.

I spent that first African Christmas Eve in the boardinghouse. Though I tried to refuse the invitation, its owner persuaded me yet again with her overwhelming insistence.

“You’re coming for dinner at La Luneta, and that’s all there is to it—as long as Candelaria has room at her table nobody spends the holidays alone.”

I couldn’t refuse, but it cost me a tremendous effort. As the holiday approached, gusts of sadness began their invasion, through chinks in the windows and spaces under the doors, until the entire workshop was permeated with melancholy. How was my mother, how was she bearing the uncertainty of not hearing any word from me, how was she managing to support herself in these dreadful times? Unanswered questions assailed me at every moment, increasing my sense of uneasiness. My neighborhood did little to cheer me: there was barely a flicker of joy to be felt there despite the shop decorations, the people exchanging greetings, and the children of the neighboring apartments humming carols as they trotted down the stairs. The sure knowledge of what was happening in Spain was so dark and heavy that no one seemed in the mood to celebrate.

I reached the boardinghouse after eight in the evening, after passing hardly anyone on the streets. Candelaria had roasted a couple of turkeys: the first proceeds from the new business had introduced a certain prosperity to her larder. I brought two bottles of sparkling wine and a round Dutch cheese brought over from Tangiers at the price of gold. I found the guests worn down, bitter, so very sad. Candelaria, on the other hand, tried hard to rally everyone’s spirits, her sleeves rolled up, singing at the top of her voice as she put the finishing touches on the dinner.

“I’m here, Candelaria,” I said, coming into the kitchen.

She stopped singing and stirring the pot.

“And what’s the matter with you, if I might know? Coming in with that miserable face like you’re being led off to the slaughterhouse.”

“Nothing’s the matter with me—what could be?” I said, looking for somewhere to put down the bottles while avoiding her gaze.

She wiped her hands on a cloth, grabbed my arm, and forced me to turn toward her.

“You don’t fool me, girl. It’s about your mother, isn’t it?”

I didn’t look at her, or answer.

“The first Christmas Eve out of the nest is ever so shitty, but you’ve got to grin and bear it, honey. I still remember mine, and you know in my house we were poor as mice and hardly did anything the whole night except sing, dance, and clap, with very little there to fill your belly. And yet for all that, blood is thicker than water, even if the only things you’ve shared with your people have been hardships and miseries.”

I still didn’t catch her eye, trying to look as though I was concentrating on finding a space to put the bottles down amid the mountain of odds and ends that occupied the table. A mortar, a pot of soup, a large dish of custard. An earthenware bowl filled with olives, three heads of garlic, a sprig of bay leaves. She went on talking, close and sure.