The Time in Between: A Novel (33 page)

“I’m dying for a morning cocktail at the El Minzah bar. But I’ve got a little bit of business to sort out first—will you come with me?”

“Where?”

“To the Bank of London and South America. To see if my loathsome husband has sent me my damned allowance once and for all.”

I also took off my headscarf, all the while wondering when that woman would stop shattering my assumptions. Not only had she turned out to be a loving mother when I’d supposed her to be a freewheeling young woman; not only had she asked to borrow my clothes to go to a reception of expatriate Nazis when I’d assumed she’d have a luxurious wardrobe sewn by great international designers; not only did she have
as her lover a powerful soldier twice her age when I’d expected her to be in love with a handsome, frivolous young foreigner. All that still wasn’t enough to put an end to all my suppositions, nothing of the sort. Now it turned out that there was also a husband in her life, absent but living, who didn’t seem too eager to support her.

“I don’t think I can go with you, I’ve also got things to do,” I said in response to her invitation. “But we can arrange to meet up later.”

“Muy bien.” She looked at her watch. “One o’clock?”

I accepted. It wasn’t yet eleven; I’d have more than enough time for myself. I wouldn’t necessarily have any luck, but I would at least have time.

___________

T
he bar of the El Minzah Hotel was just as it had been a year earlier. Animated clusters of stylishly dressed European men and women filled the tables and the bar drinking whiskey, sherry, and cocktails, forming groups in which the conversation jumped from language to language as easily as one might shift gears. In the middle of the room a pianist was lightening up the atmosphere with his melodious music. No one seemed to be in a hurry, everything seemed to be just as it had been in the summer of 1936 with the sole exception that there wasn’t a man waiting for me at the bar, speaking Spanish to the barman, but an Englishwoman chatting to him in English as she held a glass in one hand.

“Sira, querida!” she said, attracting my attention when she noticed me. “A pink gin?” she asked, holding up her cocktail.

To me, drinking gin with bitters was no different than swigging turpentine, so I accepted with a forced smile.

“Do you know Dean? He’s an old friend. Dean, let me introduce you to Sira Quiroga, mi modista, my dressmaker.”

I looked at the barman and recognized his lean body and sallow face, in which were set eyes with a dark and enigmatic stare. I remembered how he used to talk to everyone in the days when Ramiro and
I would hang around his bar, how everyone seemed to come to him when they needed a contact, a reference, or slippery little bits of information. I saw his eyes running over me, locating me in his past while at the same time weighing up the ways I’d changed and associating me with the vanished presence of Ramiro. He spoke before I did.

“I think you’ve been here before, some time back, haven’t you?”

“A long time ago, yes,” I said simply.

“Yes, I think I remember. So many things have happened since then, haven’t they? There are a lot more Spaniards around here now; when you were visiting us there weren’t so many.”

Yes, a lot of things had happened. Thousands of Spaniards had arrived in Tangiers fleeing the war, Ramiro and I had left, each in our own direction. My life had changed, along with my country, my body, and my affections; everything had changed so much that I preferred not to think about it, so I pretended to be concentrating on looking for something at the bottom of my bag and didn’t reply. They continued chatting and exchanging confidences, switching between English and Spanish, occasionally trying to include me in gossip that didn’t interest me in the slightest. I had enough to think about trying to put my own affairs in order. Some customers left, others arrived: elegant-looking men and women at ease and with no apparent obligations. Rosalinda greeted many of them with a pleasant gesture or a couple of kind words, as though avoiding having to linger over any encounter more than was absolutely necessary. She managed for a while, until the arrival of a couple of women she knew, who no sooner saw her than they decided that a simple hello, dear, how lovely to see you wasn’t going to be enough for them. Their appearance was magnificent: blond, slim, and graceful, vague foreigners like those whose gestures and postures I’d so often emulated in front of the cracked mirror in Candelaria’s bedroom. They greeted Rosalinda with fleeting kisses, puckering their lips and barely grazing their powdered cheeks. They settled in with us quite naturally, without anyone having invited them. The barman prepared their aperitifs, they took out cigarette cases, ivory cigarette holders, and silver lighters. They referred to names and posts, parties, meetings, and partings from this or that person: do you remember that night in Villa Harris, you’re never going
to guess what happened to Lucille Dawson with her last boyfriend, oh, by the way, did you know that Bertie Stewart has gone bankrupt? And on and on like that until one of them, the older of the two, the more bejeweled one, quite overtly raised with Rosalinda the subject that they’d doubtless had on their minds from the moment they’d seen her.

“So, my dear, how are things going with you in Tetouan? To tell you the truth, we were all so surprised to hear about your unexpected departure. It was all so, so sudden . . .”

A little laugh filled with cynicism preceded Rosalinda’s reply.

“Oh, my life in Tetouan is just marvelous. I’ve got a dream house and some fantastic friends, like mi querida Sira, who has the best haute couture atelier in all of North Africa.”

They looked at me with interest, and I replied with a flick of my hair and a smile falser than Judas.

“Well then, perhaps we’ll come one day and pay you a visit. We adore fashion and it’s true that we’re a little bored of the Tangiers dressmakers, aren’t we, Mildred?”

The younger one nodded effusively and took up the baton of the conversation again.

“We’d love to come and see you in Tetouan, Rosalinda dear, but all this business with the border has been such a trial since the beginning of the Spanish war . . .”

“Though maybe you, with your contacts, could get us a safe-conduct; that way we could come and visit you both. And perhaps then we’d also have the chance to meet some more of your new friends.”

The blondes made rhythmical progress in their advance toward their goal; Dean, the barman, followed it all impassively from behind the bar, unwilling to miss a single second of the action. Rosalinda, meanwhile, kept a frozen smile fixed on her face. Her two friends went on talking, each of them in turn taking up where the other left off.

“That would be marvelous; my dear, tout le monde in Tangiers is dying to meet your new friends.”

“Well, why not say it straight out, since we’re among true friends, right? We’re dying to meet one of your friends in particular. They say he’s someone very, very special.”

“Perhaps one evening you could invite us to one of the receptions he hosts; that way you could introduce him to your old friends from Tangiers. We’d love to come, wouldn’t we, Olivia?”

“It would be wonderful. We’re so bored of always seeing the same faces—mixing with the representatives of the new Spanish regime would be fascinating for us.”

“Yes, it would be fantastic, so fantastic . . . And besides, the company my husband represents has some new products that might be of considerable interest to the Nationalist army. Perhaps with a little push from you we might be able to introduce them into Spanish Morocco.”

“And my poor Arnold has got a little tired of his current position in the Bank of British West Africa; perhaps in Tetouan, among your circle, he might be able to find something more on his level . . .”

Bit by bit Rosalinda’s smile was fading, and she didn’t even try to hold it. And quite simply when she felt she had heard enough nonsense she decided to ignore the blondes and addressed me and the barman in turn.

“Sira, querida, shall we go and have lunch at Roma Park? Dean—por favor—be a love and put our aperitifs on my tab.”

He shook his head.

“They’re on the house.”

“Ours, too?” Olivia asked instantly. Or it might have been Mildred.

Before the barman had a chance to reply, Rosalinda did it for him. “Not yours.”

“Why not?” asked Mildred with an expression of astonishment. Or it might have been Olivia.

“Because you’re a couple of zorras—how do you say, Sira, querida?”

“A couple of bitches,” I said, without a glimmer of doubt.

“Sí—that’s it, a couple of bitches.”

We left the bar at the El Minzah aware of the many eyes following us: even for a cosmopolitan, tolerant kind of society like Tangiers, the public love affair between a married young Englishwoman and an older, powerful rebel soldier was a tasty morsel to spice up aperitif time.

___________

I
suppose my relationship with Juan Luis must have come as something of a surprise to a lot of people, but to me it felt as though it were written in the stars from the beginning of time.”

Among the many people to whom the couple seemed entirely inconceivable was, of course, myself. I found it enormously difficult to imagine the woman I had in front of me—with her radiant charm, her worldly airs, and her great frivolity—in a solid romantic relationship with a sober, high-ranking officer, let alone one twice her age.

Rosalinda and I were eating fish and drinking white wine on a restaurant terrace while the air from the nearby sea made the blue-and-white striped awnings flutter above our heads, bringing with it the scent of saltpeter and sad associations that I forced myself to drive away, focusing my attention back on Rosalinda’s conversation. She seemed to have an enormous desire to talk about her relationship with the high commissioner, to share a completely personal version of the facts, a world away from the distorted whispers that she knew were running from mouth to mouth in Tangiers and Tetouan. But why tell me, someone she barely knew? Despite my disguise as a chic dressmaker, our origins could not have been more different, nor our current lives. She came from a cosmopolitan world, a world of comfort
and leisure; I was no more than a worker, the daughter of a humble single mother, raised in a traditional old neighborhood in Madrid. She was living a passionate affair with a distinguished senior officer from the army that had incited the war that was devastating my country; I, meanwhile, worked day and night just to get by. But regardless, she’d decided to confide in me. Perhaps because she thought it might be one way of paying me back for the favor I did her with the Delphos. Perhaps because she thought that, being an independent woman of the same age, I’d be able to understand her better. Or perhaps simply because she felt lonely and had a desperate need to pour her heart out to someone. And that someone, on that summer midday in that city on the African coast, turned out to be me.

“Before his death in that tragic accident, Sanjurjo had insisted that once I was settled in Tangiers I should go and look up his friend Juan Luis Beigbeder in Tetouan; he kept referring to our meeting at the Adlon in Berlin and saying how pleased he’d be to see me de nuevo. And, la verdad, the truth is, I also wanted to meet him again: he’d struck me as a fascinating man, so interesting, so cultured, so, so . . . such a real Spanish gentleman. And so once I’d been settled for a few months I decided the time had come for me to visit the capital of the Protectorate to call on him. By then, claro—obviously—things had changed: he was no longer in his administrative role in Indigenous Affairs, but occupying the senior post in the High Commission. And I turned up there in my Austin 7. Ay, Dios! How will I ever forget that day? I arrived in Tetouan and the first thing I did was to go see the English consul, Monck-Mason—you do know him, don’t you? I call him ‘Old Monkey’—he’s such a dreadfully boring man, pobrecito.”

I took advantage of the fact that at that moment I was bringing my wineglass to my mouth and made an imprecise gesture. I didn’t know this Monck-Mason, I’d only heard of him occasionally from my clients, but I didn’t acknowledge this in front of Rosalinda.

“When I told him I meant to visit Beigbeder, the consul was stunned. As you know, unlike the Germans and the Italians, His Majesty’s Government—our government—has almost no contact with the Spanish authorities from Franco’s Nationalist side because they
still recognize the Republican regime in Madrid as the legitimate one, so Monck-Mason thought my visit to Juan Luis might turn out to be very useful for British interests. Anyway, before noon I headed for the High Commission in my car, accompanied only by Joker, my dog. At the entrance I showed the letter of introduction that Sanjurjo had given me before his death, and someone led me through to Juan Luis’s private secretary, along corridors filled with soldiers and spittoons—qué asco! Disgusting. Jiménez Muro, his secretary, took me straight into the office. Bearing in mind the war and his position, I imagined I would find the new high commissioner dressed in an imposing uniform covered with medals and decorations, but no, no, quite the contrary. Just as on that night in Berlin, Juan Luis was wearing a simple dark suit that made him look like anything but a rebel soldier. He was delighted by my visit: he turned out to be enchanting, we chatted, and he invited me to lunch, but I’d already accepted a prior invitation from Monck-Mason, so we arranged to meet the following day.”

Bit by bit the tables around us were filling up. Rosalinda would occasionally greet someone with a simple gesture or a quick smile, without showing much interest or interrupting her narrative about those first meetings with Beigbeder. I was also able to recognize the odd familiar face, people I’d met through Ramiro and whom I chose not to acknowledge. So the two of us remained focused on each other: she talking, me listening, both of us eating our fish, drinking cold wine, and ignoring the noise of the world around us.

“The following day I arrived at the High Commission expecting to find some sort of ceremonial meal as befit the setting: a big table, formality, surrounded by waiters . . . But Juan Luis had arranged for them to prepare us a simple table for two beside a window open to the garden. It was an inolvidable lunch, unforgettable, during which he spoke and spoke and spoke nonstop about Morocco, about his beloved Morocco, as he calls it. About its magic, its secrets, its fascinating culture. After lunch he decided to show me some of the area surrounding Tetouan—qué lindo! We went out in his official car—imagine!—followed by a procession of drivers and assistants, all so embarrassing! Pues, anyway,
we ended up at the beach, sitting on the shore while the others waited on the road, can you believe it?”