María Dueñas - The Time in Between

To my good fortune, he chose the latter.

“As I was saying,” he went on once his assistant had left, “I don’t deal directly with the fabrics we import; that is, I keep myself informed about the facts and figures, but I don’t know about the aesthetic matters that I presume will be of interest to you.”

“Perhaps you have an employee who might be able to help me,” I suggested.

“Yes, of course; my staff is extremely efficient. But I’d like to look after you myself.”

“I wouldn’t want to cause you any—” I interrupted.

He didn’t let me finish.

“It would be a pleasure to be able to assist you,” he said, gesturing to the waiter to refill our glasses. “How long did you mean to stay with us?”

“A couple of weeks. Apart from the materials, I’d like to make the most of my trip to visit some other suppliers, perhaps some designers’ studios. And shops, too: for shoes, hats, lingerie, notions… In Spain, as I’m sure you know, it’s barely possible to find anything decent these days.”

“I’ll give you all the contacts you need, you can count on that. Let me think: tomorrow morning I’m going on a short trip, I’m sure it’ll be a matter of a couple of days, no more than that. Would meeting on Thursday morning suit you?”

“Of course, but I must insist, I really don’t want to trouble you…”

He sat forward in his chair and leaned over, looking me straight in the eye.

“You could never be any trouble.”

That’s what you think, I thought, quick as a flash. My mouth, however, was fixed in a smile.

We went on chatting about trivialities; ten minutes, maybe fifteen. When I calculated that it was time to bring the meeting to an end I faked a yawn and immediately mumbled an embarrassed apology. “I’m so sorry. The overnight train was exhausting.”

“I’ll let you get some rest then,” he said, getting up.

“And besides, you have a dinner.”

“Ah yes, the dinner, that’s right.” He didn’t even bother to look at his watch. “I suppose they’ll be waiting for me,” he added reluctantly. I could tell he was lying. Or perhaps not.

As we walked over to the entrance lobby, he greeted various people we passed, switching languages with incredible ease. A handshake here, a pat on the shoulder there; an affectionate kiss on the cheek of a frail old lady who looked like an Egyptian mummy, and a mischievous wink at two showy women overloaded with jewels from head to toe.

“Estoril is full of old cockatoos who used to be rich and aren’t any longer,” he whispered in my ear, “but they cling to yesterday tooth and nail, preferring to live on bread and sardines rather than sell what little they have left of their faded glory. You can see them with all their pearls and diamonds, wrapped in minks and ermines even in the height of summer, but they’re carrying handbags filled with cobwebs that haven’t seen a single escudo for months.”

The simple elegance of my dress fitted perfectly with our surroundings, and he made sure that everyone around us noticed it. He didn’t introduce me to anyone, nor did he tell me who anyone was: he just walked beside me, keeping to my pace, as though he were my escort: ever attentive, showing me off.

As we headed toward the exit I quickly weighed the result of the meeting. Manuel Da Silva had come to greet me, to invite me to a glass of champagne, and above all to measure me up: to evaluate with his own eyes just how far it was worth making the effort to take personal charge of the request that had come from Madrid. Someone via someone at the request of someone else had asked him as a favor to look after me, but there were two possible ways of doing that. One was by delegating: getting me looked after by some competent employee while he spared himself the obligation. The other required his own involvement. His time was worth gold dust, and he undoubtedly had countless commitments. The fact that he had offered to look after my insignificant needs himself suggested that my assignment was progressing along the right lines.

“I’ll get in touch as soon as I can.”

He held out his hand in farewell.

“A thousand thanks, Senhor Da Silva,” I said, offering mine. Not one hand, both of them.

“Please call me Manuel,” he said. I noticed that he held my hands a few seconds longer than was necessary.

“In that case, I’ll have to be Arish.”

“Good night, Arish. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you. Till we meet again, then, have some rest and enjoy our country.”

I went into the elevator and held his gaze until the two golden doors began to close, progressively narrowing my view of the lobby. Manuel Da Silva remained in front of them until he—first his shoulders, then his ears and neck, and finally his nose—disappeared as well.

When I was sure that I was beyond the reach of his gaze and we were beginning our ascent, I sighed so deeply that the young elevator attendant seemed about to ask if I was all right. The first step of my mission had just been completed: I’d passed the test.

Icame down to breakfast early. Orange juice, the trilling of birds, white bread with butter, the cool shade of an awning, ladyfingers, and superb coffee. I stayed in the garden as long as I possibly could: compared to the bustle with which I began my days in Madrid, this felt like heaven itself. When I returned to my room I found an arrangement of exotic flowers on the desk. Out of pure thoughtless habit, the first thing I did was quickly untie the ribbon that adorned them in search of a coded message. But instead of finding any dots or dashes on the ribbon, what I found was a handwritten card.

My dear Arish,

Do make use of my driver João at your convenience, so that your stay is more comfortable.

Till Thursday,

His penmanship was elegant and vigorous, and in spite of the good impression that I’d apparently made the previous night, his message wasn’t the least bit fawning, not even deferential. Courteous, but restrained and firm. Better that way. For now.

João turned out to be a grey-haired man in a grey uniform, with an impressive mustache, and at least a decade over sixty. He was waiting for me at the entrance to the hotel, chatting with other drivers who were much younger than he, smoking compulsively. Senhor Da Silva had sent him to take the young lady anywhere she wanted to go, he announced, looking me up and down, and making no attempt to hide it. I presumed this wasn’t the first time he’d been given a job of this kind.

“Shopping in Lisbon, please.” The truth, though, was that rather than seeing the streets and the shops, what really interested me was killing time while I waited for Manuel Da Silva to show his face again.

I learned at once that João was far from your typical discreet chauffeur focused on his work. No sooner had he started up the Bentley than he made some comment about the weather; a couple of minutes later he complained about the state of the roads; later I think I understood him to be ranting about prices. Faced with this clear eagerness to speak, I could assume one of two possible roles: that of a distant lady who considered employees inferior beings whom one needn’t even deign to look at, or an elegantly friendly foreigner who—while still maintaining her distance—was able to share her delight, even with the staff. It would have been more comfortable for me to take on the former personality and spend the day isolated in my own world, free from the interference of that old chatterbox, but I knew I shouldn’t when he mentioned, a couple of miles later, the fifty-three years he’d been working for the Da Silvas. The role of a haughty lady would have suited me extremely comfortably, certainly, but the alternative would prove much more useful. I needed to keep João talking, however exhausting it might become: if I could learn about Da Silva’s past, then perhaps I might find out something about his present.