María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“You don’t look like you fancy becoming a millionairess tonight.”

I smiled weakly.

“I’m exhausted,” I said. I tried to put a bit of sweetness into my voice; I didn’t want him to sense my concerns.

“Would you like me to take you to the hotel?”

“I’d be grateful.”

“Just give me a moment.” He took a few steps away from me to hold out his hand to an acquaintance he’d just seen.

I remained still, absent, not even bothering to distract myself with the fascinating bustle of the hall. And then, almost like a shadow, I realized that he was approaching. He passed behind me, stealthy, almost touching me. Surreptitiously, without even stopping, he took my right hand, opened my fingers, and put something inside. And I let him do it. And then, without a word, he left. As I kept my attention apparently fixed on one of the tables, I nervously felt the thing he’d left me: a bit of paper, folded several times over. I hid it under the wide belt of my dress just as Manuel stepped away from his acquaintance and walked back toward me.

“Shall we go?”

“I’ve just got to go to the powder room a moment first.”

“Very well, I’ll wait for you here.”

I tried to spot some trace of him as I walked, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in the powder room, just a sleepy-looking old black woman at the door. I took the piece of paper from out of its hiding place and unfolded it with nimble fingers.

“Whatever happened to the S. I left in T.?”

S. was of course Sira, and T., Tetouan. Where was the old me of the African days, Marcus was asking. My eyes filled with tears. I opened my handbag in search of a handkerchief and an answer. I found the first, but not the second.

On Monday I resumed my outings in search of merchandise for the atelier. They’d arranged a visit for me to a milliner’s on the Rua da Prata, just around the corner from Da Silva’s offices: the perfect excuse for me to drop by, for no reason other than to say hello. And in doing so, to have a look around and see who was in his territory.

I only found the young, unfriendly secretary; Beatriz Oliveira, he had said was her name.

“Senhor Da Silva is traveling. Work,” she said, without any further explanation.

Just as on my previous visit, she made it clear she had no interest in being friendly, but just the same, it occurred to me that this might be the only time I’d be alone with her, so I didn’t want to waste it. Judging by her somber expression and her terseness, I expected it to be extremely difficult to extract even a tiny crumb of anything worthwhile from her, but I had nothing better to do, so I decided to give it a try.

“Oh my, what rotten luck. I wanted to consult him on a matter concerning the fabrics he showed me the other day. Are they still in his office?” I asked. My heart began to beat hard at the possibility that I might be able to get in without Manuel being around, but she cut short my false hope before it had even taken shape.

“No. They’ve been taken back to the warehouse.”

I thought fast. My first attempt had failed; well then, I’d just have to keep trying.

“Would you mind if I sat down for a minute? I’ve been on my feet all morning looking at caps, turbans, and picture hats; I think I need a bit of a rest.”

I didn’t give her time to reply: before she had the chance to open her mouth, I dropped into one of the leather armchairs, feigning an exaggerated weariness. We remained in silence for a long while, as she continued to go over a several-page document, from time to time making a little mark or a comment in pencil.

“Cigarette?” I asked after two or three minutes. Although I wasn’t much of a smoker, I usually had a cigarette case in my handbag. To use at just such moments.

“No, thank you,” she said without looking at me. She went on working while I lit one. I let her continue for another couple of minutes.

“It was you who found all the suppliers and arranged the appointments and prepared the folder with all the information, wasn’t it?”

Finally she looked up for a moment.

“Yes, it was me.”

“A great piece of work; you can’t imagine how useful it’s been for me.”

She muttered a quick thank-you and went back to focusing on her task.

“Of course, Senhor Da Silva isn’t short of contacts,” I went on. “It must be amazing having business dealings with so many different companies. And so many foreign ones, especially. In Spain everything’s much less interesting.”

“I’m not surprised,” she murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I’m not surprised it’s not very interesting, bearing in mind who you’ve got in charge,” she muttered between her teeth with her attention apparently still on her assignment.

A quick shock of delight ran down my spine: the devoted secretary is interested in politics. All right, I’d try a different approach.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, slowly stubbing out my cigarette. “What do you expect from someone who thinks we women should stay home making dinner and bringing children into the world?”

“And who has filled up the prisons and denies his defeated opponents the slightest shred of compassion,” she added firmly.

“It certainly looks that way.” This was going in an unexpected direction; I’d have to act with extreme caution to win her trust and get her on my side. “Do you know Spain at all, Beatriz?”

I noticed she was surprised that I knew her name. Finally she deigned to put down her pencil and look at me.

“I’ve never been, but I know what’s going on there. I have friends who tell me. Though you probably don’t have any idea what I’m talking about; you belong to a different world.”

I got up, approached her desk, and sat down boldly on the edge. I looked at her close up, to check out what there was beneath that outfit made from cheap material, which had undoubtedly been sewn for her years ago by some neighbor for a handful of escudos. Behind her glasses I saw intelligent eyes, and hidden amid the furious devotion with which she approached her work, I could sense a fighting spirit that seemed somehow familiar. Beatriz Oliveira and I weren’t so different. Two hardworking girls from similar backgrounds, backgrounds that were modest and filled with struggle. Two journeys that began from points close to each other and at some point the paths diverged. Time had made her into a meticulously dedicated employee; me, an entirely fake façade. Most likely, though, what we had in common was much more real than our differences. I was staying in a luxury hotel and she would be living in some leaky house in a humble neighborhood, but we both knew what it meant to struggle our whole lives to prevent ill luck from nipping at our heels.

“I know a lot of people, Beatriz; very different people,” I said in a low voice. “Right now I’m dealing with powerful people because that’s what my job demands of me and because certain unexpected circumstances have introduced me to them, but I know what it’s like to feel the cold in winter, to eat beans day after day and struggle out into the street before the sun has risen to earn a miserable day’s wage. And in case it’s of any interest to you, I don’t like this Spain that’s being built any more than you do. Now will you accept a cigarette?”

She held out her hand without replying and took one. I held out the lighter, then took another myself.

“How are things in Portugal?” I asked.

“Bad,” she said, after exhaling the smoke. “Perhaps Salazar’s Estado Novo isn’t as repressive as Franco’s Spain, but the authoritarianism and the lack of freedom aren’t all that different.”