María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“They’ve dismissed me. It’s going public tomorrow. The press release has already been sent to the Official State Bulletin and the press; in seven or eight hours the news will be out there on the streets. Do you know how many words they’re going to eliminate me with? Eighteen. I’ve counted them. Look.”

He drew a handwritten note out of his jacket pocket and showed it to me. It bore just a couple of lines that he recited from memory.

“ ‘Don Juan Beigbeder y Atienza leaves his role as minister for foreign affairs, with my gratitude for his services rendered.’ Eighteen if you don’t count the ‘Don’ before my name, which will probably be abbreviated. If not, it’ll be nineteen. It’ll be followed by the statement from El Caudillo, in which he thanks me for the services I’ve performed. That one’s a real joke.”

He drained the glass in a gulp and I poured him another.

“I knew I’d been walking a tightrope for months, but I didn’t expect the blow to be so sudden. Or so degrading.”

He lit another cigarette and went on talking through puffs of smoke.

“Yesterday afternoon I was with Franco in El Pardo; it was a long, relaxed meeting. At no point was he critical, nor did he make any speculations about my possible replacement. You know things have been tense lately, ever since I’ve been allowing myself to be seen openly with Ambassador Hoare. Actually I left the meeting quite satisfied, thinking that Franco was considering my ideas, that perhaps he’d finally decided to give some weight to my opinions. How could I have imagined that what he was about to do the moment I was out the door was sharpen the knife to plunge it into my back the following day. I had sought an audience with him to discuss some matters concerning his forthcoming interview with Hitler in Hendaya, knowing what a humiliation it was for me that he’d not planned for me to go with him. All the same, I wanted to talk to him, to pass on certain pieces of important information that I’d obtained through Admiral Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence organization—do you know who I’m talking about?”

“I’ve heard the name before, yes.”

“Although the position he occupies might appear rather unappealing, Canaris is a pleasant, charismatic man, and I have an extremely good relationship with him. We’re both part of a strange class of rather sentimental soldiers who don’t have much affection for uniforms, decorations, and barracks. In theory he’s under Hitler’s command, but he doesn’t bow to his plans and acts quite autonomously. So much so that they say he has the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, too, just as I had these past months.”

He got up from his place, took a few steps, and approached one of the balcony doors. The curtains were open.

“Best not to get too close,” I warned him firmly. “You could be seen from the street.”

He turned abruptly and crossed the room several times from end to end as he continued talking.

“I call him my friend Guillermo, like that, in Spanish; he speaks our language very well, he lived in Chile for a bit. A few days ago we met for lunch at the Casa Botín—he loves roast pork. I noted that he was more alienated than ever from the influence of Hitler, so much so that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been plotting against the Führer with the English. We talked about the absolute advisability of Spain not getting involved in the war on the side of the Axis powers, and to that end we spent the meal working on a list of provisions that Franco should ask Hitler for in exchange for agreeing to join the conflict. I’m perfectly familiar with our strategic requirements, and Canaris knows all about Germany’s weaknesses, so between the two of us we compiled a roster of demands that Spain should make as nonnegotiable conditions of its participation and that Germany would be in no position to agree to, even in the medium term. The proposal included a long list of impossible requests, from territorial possessions in French Morocco and Oran to exorbitant quantities of grains and arms, and Gibraltar being taken over exclusively by Spanish soldiers; all of it, as I say, quite impossible. Canaris also advised me that he would not recommend that we begin the reconstruction of everything that had been destroyed by the war in Spain, that it would be better to leave the railways destroyed and the highways broken up so that the Germans were aware of the pitiful state of the country and how difficult it would be for their troops to get across it.”

He sat back down and took another sip of cognac. Fortunately the alcohol was relaxing him. I, meanwhile, remained utterly unsettled, unable to understand why Beigbeder had come to seek me out at this time of night and in such a state to talk about his meetings with Franco and his contact with German soldiers, which had so little to do with me.

“I arrived at El Pardo with all this information and conveyed it to El Caudillo in detail,” he went on. “He listened very intently, held on to the document, and thanked me for my work. He was so cordial with me that he even made a personal reference to the old times we’d shared in Africa. The Generalísimo and I have known each other for many years, did you know that? Actually apart from his ineffable brother-in-law, I think I am—sorry, I was—the only member of his government not to address him as ‘sir.’ Our little Franquito in charge of the Glorious National Movement—we never would have imagined such a thing. We were never great friends, in truth; actually, I don’t think he’s ever thought very highly of me at all—he didn’t understand my lack of military enthusiasm and my desire for postings that were urban, administrative, and, if at all possible, foreign. He didn’t fascinate me particularly either, I have to be honest with you; he was always so serious, so upright and dull, so competitive and obsessed with promotions and the career ladder, a real pain in the ass of a man. We were together in Tetouan; he was already a commandant, I was still a captain. Do you want me to tell you a story? When night fell all the officers used to get together in a seedy little café on the Plaza de España to have a few glasses of tea—do you remember those little cafés?”

“I remember them perfectly,” I said. How could I erase from my memory the wrought iron chairs under the palm trees, the smell of kebabs and tea with mint, the subdued movement of djellabas and European suits around the central pavilion with its clay tiles, and the whitewashed Moorish arches.

Nostalgia caused him to smile briefly for the first time. He lit another cigarette and leaned back in the sofa. We were talking in near darkness, with the small lamp in the corner of the room providing the only light. I was still in my dressing gown: I hadn’t found a moment to excuse myself to run and change. I didn’t want to leave him alone for a single second until he was quite calm.

“One evening he didn’t show up, and we all began to speculate about his absence. We came to the conclusion that he must have a girl and decided to seek out some confirmation; you know, basically just the nonsense that young officers get up to when they have too much time on their hands and not much to do. We drew lots and it fell to me to be the one to spy on him. The next day I clarified the mystery. On leaving the citadel I followed him as far as the medina and saw him go into a house, a typical Arab home. Although I found it hard to believe, I first imagined that he was having an affair with some little Muslim girl. I made some excuse to get myself into the house—I can’t even remember what it was. And what do you think I found? Our man getting Arabic lessons, that’s what he was up to. Because the great Africanist general, Spain’s notable and unvanquished Caudillo, the savior of the nation, doesn’t speak Arabic, however much he may have tried to learn. Nor does he understand the Moroccan people, nor does he care about them in the least. But I do. I care about them a great deal. And I get along with them because they’re my brothers. I can understand them in the most elevated Arabic, in Cherja, the dialect of the Rif villages, in whatever dialect they speak. And that was extremely troublesome to Spain’s youngest commandant, the pride of the troops in Africa. And the fact that it was I who discovered him trying to amend his fault annoyed him even more. But anyway, all youthful foolishness.”