María Dueñas - The Time in Between

João was waiting for me with the back door open. Fortunately his attention was on a small mishap on the opposite pavement, a roadside commotion that included a dog, a bicycle, and various arguing pedestrians. He only became aware of my arrival when I made my presence quite clear.

“Let’s go, quickly, João: I’m exhausted,” I whispered as I settled inside.

He closed the door when I was in, then immediately positioned himself behind the wheel and started up the car, asking me what I’d thought of his last recommendation. I didn’t answer. All my energy was focused on keeping my eyes fixed forward and not turning my head. And I almost succeeded. But as the Bentley began to slip across the paving stones something irrational inside me overcame my resistance and commanded me to do something I should not have done: to look at him again.

Marcus had come out of the door and was standing there immobile, upright, his hat still on, staring hard, watching my departure with his hands plunged into his trouser pockets. Perhaps he was wondering whether he’d just seen the woman he might have fallen in love with once, or only her ghost.

When we arrived back at the hotel I asked the chauffeur not to return for me the following day; although Lisbon was a reasonably large city I couldn’t run the risk of bumping into Marcus Logan again. I claimed to be tired and predicted a pretend migraine; I assumed that the news of my intention not to go out again would quickly reach Da Silva, and I didn’t want him to think I was turning down his friendly offer without a very good reason. I spent the rest of the evening soaking in the bathtub and a large part of the night sitting on my balcony, distractedly watching the lights over the sea. During those long hours I couldn’t stop thinking about Marcus for a minute: about him as a man, about everything our time together had meant to me, and about the consequences I might face if I were to run into him again at some inconvenient moment. It was getting light by the time I went to bed. My stomach was empty, my mouth dry, and my soul all shriveled up.

The garden and the breakfast were the same as on the previous morning, but although I tried hard to behave just as naturally, I didn’t enjoy it as much. I forced myself to eat a hearty breakfast in spite of not being hungry, and I spent as much time as I could leafing through a number of magazines written in languages I didn’t understand. I got up from the table only when there were no more than a handful of straggling guests left scattered around the tables. It was not yet eleven in the morning: I had a whole day ahead of me and nothing but my own thoughts to fill it with.

I went back to my room; it had already been tidied. I lay down on the bed and shut my eyes. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. I didn’t get to forty: I couldn’t bear my brain going around and around the same thing a second longer. I changed my clothes: I put on a light skirt, a white cotton blouse, and a pair of low sandals. I covered my hair with a patterned scarf, hid myself behind a pair of large sunglasses, and left the room, avoiding looking at my reflection in the mirror: I didn’t want to see the glum expression that had fixed itself to my face.

There was hardly anyone on the beach. The waves, broad and flat, followed one another, monotonous. Not far away, what looked like a castle and a promontory with grand villas; ahead, an ocean almost as large as my unease. I sat down on the sand to look at it, and with my gaze fixed on the advancing and retreating of the foam, I lost all sense of time and let myself get swept away. Each wave carried a memory with it, an image of the past: memories of the young woman I once was, of my accomplishments and my fears, of the friends I’d left behind, scenes from other lands, with other voices. And above all that morning, the sea brought me feelings that had been forgotten between the folds of memory: the caress of a dear hand, the strength of a friendly arm, the joy of what was shared, and a longing for what was desired.

It was almost three in the afternoon when I shook the sand off my skirt. Time to go back, as good a time as any. I crossed the road to the hotel; there were barely any cars passing. One was disappearing into the distance, another was approaching slowly. That one seemed familiar, vaguely familiar. A needling curiosity made me slow my pace until the car passed me. And I knew then what car it was and who was driving. Da Silva’s Bentley, with João behind the wheel. What a coincidence, what a very fortuitous meeting! Or not, I suddenly thought with a shudder. There were probably a thousand reasons why the old chauffeur should have been driving calmly through the streets of Estoril, but my instinct told me that he had just come for me. Candelaria and my mother would have said, Snap out of it, girl, snap out of it! But since they weren’t around, I said it to myself. Yes, I had to snap out of it; I’d lowered my guard. Meeting Marcus had made a violent impression on me and had unearthed so many recollections and feelings, but now was not the time to allow myself to be taken over by nostalgia. I had an assignment, an obligation: a role to play, an image to project, and a task to take care of. Sitting looking at the waves wasn’t going to achieve anything except waste time and plunge me into melancholy. The moment to return to reality had arrived.

I picked up the pace and did my best to look sprightly and lively. Although João had disappeared, there could have been other eyes watching me from any little corner on Da Silva’s orders. It was quite impossible that he should have suspected me, but perhaps his nature—as a powerful, controlling man—insisted on his knowing what exactly his Moroccan visitor was doing instead of taking advantage of his car. And I would have to be sure to show him.

I went up to my room by a side staircase; I changed my clothes and reappeared. Whereas a half hour earlier I’d been in a light skirt and a cotton blouse, I was now in an elegant mandarin-colored suit, and my flat sandals had been replaced by a pair of snakeskin high heels. My sunglasses had disappeared and I’d made myself up with the cosmetics I’d bought the previous day. My hair, no longer covered in a scarf, fell loosely over my shoulders. I went down the main staircase with a rhythmic step and wandered in leisurely style along the landing of the upper floor that looked down over the main entrance hall. I descended one more flight to the lobby floor, not forgetting to smile at everyone I passed on the way. I greeted the ladies with an elegant tilt of my head—regardless of how old they were, their language, or whether they even bothered to return the attention. With the gentlemen, a few of them local, many of them foreign, I accelerated my blinking; I even made a flirtatious gesture to a particularly decrepit one. I asked one of the receptionists to send a cable to Doña Manuela and asked for it to be transmitted to my own address. “Portugal wonderful, excellent shopping. Headache today and resting. Tomorrow visiting a helpful supplier. Best wishes, Arish Agoriuq.” Then I chose one of the armchairs that were scattered around the spacious lobby in clusters of four; I wanted to be somewhere people had to walk past, and very conspicuous. And then I crossed my legs, asked for two aspirins and a cup of tea, and devoted the rest of the afternoon to being seen.

I managed to put up with pretending to be bored for almost three hours, until my stomach began to growl. Mission concluded—I’d earned the right to go back to my room and order some dinner from room service. I was about to get up when a bellhop approached carrying a little silver tray. And on it, an envelope. And inside, a card.

Dear Arish: