María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“So, Arish—tell me. How have my friends treated you?”

I told him all about my transactions, spicing up the stories a bit. I exaggerated the situations, I made humorous observations, I imitated voices in Portuguese, I made him laugh out loud and scored some points for myself.

Finally it was my turn to listen and take things in. And if luck was on my side, perhaps to draw a few things out of him, too. “So, tell me, Manuel, how have things been since we were together yesterday morning?”

He couldn’t tell me right away, because we were interrupted. More greetings, more amiability. If it wasn’t genuine, it certainly seemed so.

“Baron von Kempel, an extraordinary man,” he noted when the elderly aristocrat with the leonine mane of hair had stepped haltingly away from the table. “Well, we left off talking about how my recent days had been. I need only two words to describe them: excruciatingly boring.”

I knew he was lying, of course, but I adopted a sympathetic tone.

“At least you have pleasant offices in which to bear your tedium, and efficient secretaries to help you.”

“You’re right, I can’t complain. It would be harder if I was working as a stevedore at the port, or if I didn’t have anyone helping me out.”

“Have they been with you long?”

“You mean the secretaries? Elisa Somoza, the older of the two, more than three decades: she joined the company in my father’s day, before even I joined. Beatriz Oliveira, the younger, I hired her only three years ago, when I saw that the company was growing and Elisa wasn’t capable of dealing with everything. Congeniality isn’t her strong suit, but she’s organized, responsible, and good with languages. I suppose the new working classes don’t enjoy being too friendly with the boss,” he said, raising his glass as for a toast.

I didn’t find his sarcasm amusing, but I disguised it, joining him in a sip of white wine. Then a couple approached the table: a stunning older lady in purple shantung down to her feet, with a companion who barely came up to her shoulder. We paused our conversation again; they switched into French; he introduced me and I greeted them with a gracious gesture and a brief enchantée.

“The Mannheims—Hungarian,” he explained when they’d retreated.

“Are they all Jews?” I asked.

“Rich Jews waiting for the war to end or to be granted a visa to travel to America. Shall we dance?”

Da Silva turned out to be a wonderful dancer. Rumbas, habaneras, jazz, and paso dobles: there was nothing he couldn’t do. I let myself get carried away: it had been a long day, and the two glasses of Douro wine I’d had with my lobster must have gone to my head. The couples on the dance floor were reflected a thousand times in the mirrors on the columns and the walls. It was hot. I closed my eyes a few moments—two seconds, three, maybe four. The moment I opened them, my worst fears had been incarnated in human form.

In an impeccable tuxedo, hair combed back, his legs slightly apart, hands in his pockets again, and a newly lit cigarette in his mouth—there sat Marcus Logan, watching us dance.

Get far away, I had to get far away from him—that was the first thing that came to my mind.

“Shall we sit down? I’m a little tired.”

Although I tried to leave the dance floor via the opposite side from Marcus, it didn’t do me any good, because I could tell with furtive glances that he was moving in the same direction. We dodged around dancing couples, and he did the same with tables of diners, but we were heading in parallel toward the same place. I noticed my legs shaking, and the heat of the May night suddenly began to feel unbearable. When we were just a few feet from the table, he stopped to greet someone, and I thought that might perhaps be where he’d been heading, but he said good-bye and kept approaching, decisive and determined. We all three reached our table at the same time, Manuel and I from the right, he from the left. And then I thought the end had come.

“Logan, you old fox, where have you been keeping yourself? It’s been a century since I’ve seen you!” exclaimed Da Silva the moment he spotted him. To my astonishment, they patted each other affectionately on the back.

“I’ve called you a thousand times, but I can never get hold of you,” said Marcus.

“Let me introduce you to Arish Agoriuq, a Moroccan friend who arrived a few days ago from Madrid.”

I held out my hand, trying not to tremble, not daring to look him in the eye. He shook it firmly, as if to say It’s me, here I am—react.

“Delighted to meet you.” My voice was hoarse and dry, almost cracked.

“Take a seat, have a drink with us,” Manuel offered.

“No, thanks. I’m with some friends, I just came over to say hello and remind you that we must meet up.”

“Sometime very soon, I promise.”

“Be sure—we have things to talk about.” And then he turned his attention to me.

“Delighted to meet you, Miss…” he said with a little bow. This time I had no choice but to look right at him. There was no longer any trace on his face of the injuries he had when I met him, but he had the same expression: the sharp features and the complicit eyes that asked me, wordlessly, What the hell are you doing here with this man?

“Agoriuq,” I managed to say as though trying to expel a rock from my mouth.

“Miss Agoriuq, that’s it, I’m sorry. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again.”

We watched him as he moved away.

“A good guy, that Marcus Logan.”

I took a long drink of water. I needed to refresh my parched throat.

“English?”

“Yes, English; we’ve done some business together.”

I drank again to dispel the unsettled feeling that had overcome me. So he’s no longer a journalist. Manuel’s words pulled me out of my reverie.

“It’s too hot here. Shall we try our luck on the roulette wheel?”

Again I pretended to be unimpressed by the opulence of the hall. Magnificent chandeliers hung from golden chains over the tables, around which swirled hundreds of players speaking as many languages as there used to be nations on the map of the old Europe. The carpeted floor muffled the sounds of people’s movements, which emphasized the other sounds that best befitted this paradise of chance: the clicking of the chips against one another, the buzz of the roulette wheels, the clattering of the ivory balls in their wild dances, and the cries of the croupiers closing play with a Rien ne va plus! There were a lot of people throwing away their money sitting around the green baize tables, and even more standing around them watching the games. Aristocrats who in another time had been regular losers and modest winners in the casinos at Baden-Baden, Monte Carlo, and Deauville, Da Silva explained. Impoverished bourgeois, paupers who had become rich, respectable beings who’d been transformed into riffraff, and true riffraff disguised as gentlemen. They’d all dressed up in their finery, triumphant and sure of themselves, the men stiff-collared and with their shirt fronts starched, the women arrogantly displaying their dazzling jewelry collections. There were also some decadent-looking individuals, fearful or furtive in their search for some acquaintance to touch for a bit of cash, perhaps clinging to the more than improbable hope of a glorious night; others prepared to gamble the last of their family jewels or the following morning’s breakfast on the baccarat table. The former were moved by the sheer emotion of the game, by the desire to enjoy themselves, by dizziness, or covetousness; for the latter it was, simply, the barest desperation.

For a few minutes we wandered around, watching the various tables; he continued to dispense greetings and exchange friendly words. I barely spoke: all I wanted was to get out of there, to shut myself in my room and forget about the world. I just wished that this accursed day would come to an end once and for all.