The Time in Between: A Novel (64 page)

As I was blocked to my left and right, and with a handrail in front suspended over the void, the only solution was to escape the way we’d come, though I knew that would be extremely rash. There was only one means of access to those boxes, I’d learned on my arrival: a sort of brick-paved passageway only nine feet wide. If I decided to return that way, I ran a good risk of running straight into the Germans. And among them no doubt I’d bump into the thing that scared me the most: German clients whose careless mouths had often dropped tasty pieces of information that I’d gathered, with my most false of smiles, and passed on to the Secret Intelligence Service of their enemy country; ladies I’d have to stop to say hello to, and who without any doubt would wonder suspiciously what their Moroccan
couturière
was doing running from a box filled with Englishmen like a soul with the devil in pursuit.

Not knowing what to do, I left Gonzalo still greeting his friends and sat down in the corner best protected from the stand, with my shoulders hunched, the lapels of my jacket raised, and my head slightly bowed, trying—or so I was fooling myself—to pass unnoticed in an open space where I knew all too well it was impossible to hide.

“Are you feeling all right? You look pale,” said my father, holding out a fruit cup.

“I think I’m just a bit queasy, it’ll pass soon enough,” I lied.

If there was anything darker than black on the spectrum of colors, my soul would have been about to turn that shade the moment the German box began to buzz with movement. Out of the corner of my eye I saw more soldiers coming in; behind them their solid-looking superior, giving orders, pointing this way and that, throwing glances filled with contempt toward the English box. They were followed by various officers in shiny boots, peaked caps, and the inevitable swastika on their arms. They didn’t even deign to look over toward us: they just remained haughty and distant, their ramrod posture demonstrating an obvious contempt for the occupants of the neighboring box. A few other men
in civilian clothes followed, and I noticed with a shudder that some of the faces were familiar to me. They had probably all—soldiers and civilians—dovetailed that event with a preceding one, which was why they’d arrived practically all together, already in their little clusters, and just in time to see the first race. At the moment there were only men; unless I was very much mistaken their wives wouldn’t be far behind.

With each passing second the atmosphere became livelier, and my anxiety along with it. The British group had fed themselves, the field glasses were being passed from hand to hand, and the conversation flowed just as easily on the subjects of turf, paddock, and jockeys as it did on the invasion of Yugoslavia, the dreadful bombings of London, or Churchill’s latest radio broadcast. And it was then that I saw him. I saw him and he saw me. And I caught my breath. Captain Alan Hillgarth had just entered the box with an elegant blond woman on his arm: his wife, most probably. His eyes lighted on me for just a fraction of a second and then, hiding a minute expression of alarm and distress that no one noticed but I, he looked swiftly over to the German box, where an endless trickle of people were still arriving.

I avoided him, getting up so as not to have to face him, convinced that I’d come to the end, that there was no earthly way of getting out of that mousetrap. I couldn’t have foreseen a more pathetic denouement to my brief career as a collaborator with British intelligence: I was about to be unmasked in public, in front of my clients, my boss, and my own father. I grabbed hold of the handrail, squeezing tight, and wished with all my heart that this day had never come: that I’d never left Morocco, absolutely never accepted the ludicrous proposal that I’d received from an unwise, ridiculously clumsy conspirator. The gun went off for the first race, the horses began their feverish gallop, and the enthusiastic cries of the crowds tore through the air. My gaze seemed to be fixed on the track, but my thoughts were trotting along far from the horses’ hooves. I sensed that the Germans must have been filling up their box and guessed at Hillgarth’s unease as he tried to find some way to handle the setback that we were just about to face. And then, like a flash, the solution appeared before my eyes when I noticed a couple of Red
Cross stretcher bearers leaning lazily against a wall in anticipation of a mishap. If I couldn’t leave that poisoned box myself, someone would have to remove me.

The justification might have been the excitement of the moment, or tiredness that had been building up for months, perhaps nerves or stress. None of these was the real reason, however. The only thing that brought me to that unexpected reaction was my survival instinct. I chose the most suitable place, the right-hand side of the stand, the side farthest from the Germans. And I calculated the perfect moment: a few seconds after the first race had come to an end, when hubbub filled the stands and shouts of enthusiasm mingled with noisy expressions of disappointment. At that exact moment, I collapsed. With a premeditated movement I turned my head and made sure my hair would cover my face once I was on the ground, in case any curious glances from the adjacent box might make it through the pairs of legs that surrounded me. I remained still, my eyes closed and my body limp; my hearing was still alert, however, taking in each and every one of the voices around me.
Faint, air, Gonzalo, quick, pulse, water, more air, quick, quick, they’re coming, first-aid box,
and various other words in English that I didn’t understand. The stretcher bearers only took a couple of minutes to arrive. They lifted me from the ground onto the canvas and covered me with a blanket right up to my neck. One, two, three, up, and I felt myself being lifted.

“I’ll go with you,” I heard Hillgarth say. “If we need to, we can call the doctor from the embassy.”

“Thank you, Alan,” replied my father. “I don’t think it’ll be anything serious, she’s just fainted. Let’s take her to the infirmary, then we’ll see.”

The stretcher bearers made their way quickly down the access tunnel, carrying me between them; behind, rushing to keep the pace, followed my father, Alan Hillgarth, and a couple of other Englishmen I wasn’t able to identify, colleagues or deputies of the naval attaché’s. I had tried to get my hair at least partly covering my face again once I was on the stretcher, but I needn’t have bothered; before they carried me out of the box I recognized Hillgarth’s firm hand pulling
the blanket up to my forehead. I couldn’t see anymore, but I could hear everything that happened next quite clearly.

Over the first few yards of the exit corridor we didn’t meet anyone, but about halfway down the situation changed. And with it, my grimmest premonitions were confirmed. First I heard more footsteps and men’s voices speaking quickly in German.
Schnell, schnell, sie haben bereits begonnen.
They were approaching us from the opposite direction, almost running. I could tell by the firmness of their step that they were soldiers; the certainty and forcefulness of their tone led me to conclude that they were officers. I imagine that the sight of the enemy naval attaché escorting a stretcher with a body covered by a blanket must have caused them a certain alarm, but they didn’t stop; they just exchanged a few brusque greetings and continued vigorously along their way to the box adjacent to the one we’d just left. The tapping of heels and the women’s voices reached my ears just a few seconds later. I heard them approach—also with firm steps—solid and dominating. Inhibited by such a display of determination, the stretcher bearers moved over to one side, pausing a moment to let them by; they almost touched us as they passed. I held my breath and noticed that my heart was pounding hard; then I heard them move away. I didn’t recognize any of the voices in particular, nor could I have said how many of them there were, but I calculated at least half a dozen. Six German women, perhaps seven, perhaps more; maybe several of them were clients of mine, the ones who selected the most elegant fabrics and who paid me both in banknotes and in freshly baked news.

I pretended to regain consciousness a few minutes later, when the noises and the voices had died down and I guessed that we were on safe ground at last. I said a few words, calmed them down. We reached the infirmary; Hillgarth and my father sent away the stretcher bearers and the Englishmen who’d been accompanying us; the latter were dismissed by the naval attaché with a few brief orders in their language, the former Gonzalo released with a generous tip and a packet of cigarettes.

“I’ll take care of it, Alan, thank you,” said my father at last, when the three of us were alone. He took my pulse and made sure that I was
reasonably all right. “I don’t think there’s any need to call a doctor. I’ll try to bring the car around here: I’ll get her home.”

I noticed that Hillgarth hesitated a few seconds.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll stay with her till you get back.”

I didn’t move until I had calculated that my father was far enough away. Only then did I summon up my courage, standing up to face him.

“You’re fine, aren’t you?” Hillgarth asked, eyeing me severely.

I could have said no, that I was still feeling weak and disoriented, I could have pretended that I still hadn’t recovered from the effects of the apparent faint. But I knew he wouldn’t believe me. And rightly so.

“Perfectly,” I replied.

“Does he know anything?” he asked, referring to my father’s awareness of my collaboration with the English.

“Not a thing.”

“Keep it that way. And don’t even think of allowing yourself to be seen with your face uncovered on the way out,” he commanded. “Lie down on the back seat of the car and remain covered up the whole time. When you get home, make sure that no one has followed you.”

“That’s fine. Anything else?”

“Come and see me tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

__________

A
magnificent performance at the Hippodrome,” was his greeting to me. In spite of the apparent compliment, his face didn’t show the slightest trace of satisfaction. He was waiting for me at Dr. Rico’s office again, in the same place where we’d met months earlier to talk about my encounter with Beigbeder following his dismissal.

“I had no other choice, believe me when I say how sorry I am,” I said as I sat down. “I had no idea we were going to be watching the races from the English box. Nor that the Germans would be occupying the one right alongside us.”

“I understand. And you responded well, coolly and quickly. But you ran an extremely high risk and almost set off a completely unnecessary crisis. We can’t permit ourselves such carelessness, especially with the situation so complicated right now.”

“Are you referring to the situation in general, or to mine in particular?” I asked with an arrogant tone that I hadn’t intended.

“Both,” he declared firmly. “Look, it’s not our intention to meddle in your private life, but given what’s happened, I feel we have to bring something to your attention.”

“Gonzalo Alvarado,” I suggested.

He didn’t reply right away; first he took a few moments to light a cigarette.

“Gonzalo Alvarado, indeed,” he said after blowing out the smoke from his first drag. “What happened yesterday wasn’t an isolated incident: we know that you’ve been seen together in public places relatively often.”

“If you’re interested, let me say quite clearly before we go on that I’m not having any kind of romantic relationship with him. And as I told you yesterday, he knows nothing about my activities.”

“The precise nature of your relationship with him is an entirely private matter and in no way our concern,” he explained.

“So then?”

“I’m asking that you don’t consider this a thoughtless invasion of your private life, but you must understand that the situation right now is extremely tense and we have no choice but to warn you.” He got up and took a few steps with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the floor tiles as he went on talking, without looking at me. “Last week we learned that there is an active group of Spanish informers cooperating with the Germans to develop files on local Germanophiles and supporters of the Allies. They’re including information on all those Spaniards with a significant attachment to one cause or the other, as well as their degree of affiliation to them.”

“And you think I’m in one of those files.”

“We don’t think it, we know it with absolute certainty,” he said, fixing his eyes on mine. “We have collaborators who have infiltrated them and they’ve told us that you’re there among the Germanophiles. Right now you’re still uncompromised, as we might have suspected: you have copious clients related to the Nazi high command, they visit you in your workshop, you sew beautiful clothes for them, and in exchange they don’t just pay you, they also confide in you, so much so that when they’re in your house they speak absolutely freely about things they shouldn’t speak about and that you pass straight on to us.”

“And Alvarado, what does he have to do with all this?”

“He’s also in their files. But he’s on the opposite side, on the roster of citizens supportive of the British. And we’ve received news that there’s
been a German order for maximum surveillance of Spanish people from certain sectors who are connected to us: bankers, businessmen, liberal professionals—citizens with means and influence who would be prepared to help our cause.”

“I imagine you know he’s no longer working, that he didn’t reopen his firm after the war,” I pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter. He has excellent relationships with members of the embassy staff and the British colony in Madrid and allows himself to be seen with them frequently. Sometimes even with me, as you will have learned yesterday. He’s very familiar with Spanish industry, which is why he advises us disinterestedly on a number of related matters. But unlike you, he isn’t an undercover agent, merely a good friend to the English people who doesn’t disguise his sympathies toward us. Which is why if you allow yourself to be seen with him too much, it might look suspicious, given that you appear in opposing files. There’s actually already been a rumor about it.”