María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“At least here it looks like you’re going to remain neutral in the European war,” I said, trying to move in closer to my target. “In Spain things aren’t so clear.”

“Salazar has agreements with the English and the Germans, an uncommon balancing act. The British have always been friends to the Portuguese people, which is why it’s so surprising how generous he’s being with the Germans, granting them export licenses and other privileges.”

“Well, that’s not unusual nowadays, is it? These are delicate matters in turbulent times. I don’t understand much about international politics, to tell you the truth, but I imagine it’s all a question of self-interest.” I tried to keep my tone trivial, as though the subject barely troubled me: the moment had come to cross the line between the public and the close to home. “The same must happen in the business world, I guess,” I added. “Without going too far afield, just the other day, when I was in the office with Senhor Da Silva, you yourself announced a visit by a German.”

“Well yes, that’s a different matter.” The expression on her face was one of disgust, and she didn’t seem keen to say any more.

“The other night Senhor Da Silva invited me to join him for dinner at the casino in Estoril and I was amazed by how many people he knew. He was greeting English people and Americans as well as Germans and a fair number of Europeans from other countries; I’ve never seen anyone with such a facility for getting along with everybody.”

A twisted grimace displayed her annoyance once again. Still she said nothing, however, so I had no choice but to try to keep talking to prevent the conversation from petering out.

“I felt sorry for the Jews there, the ones who had to abandon their homes and their businesses to escape from the war.”

“You felt sorry for the Jews at the Estoril casino?” she asked with a cynical smile. “I don’t feel in the least bit sorry for them: they live like they are permanently on a luxury vacation. The ones I feel sorry for are the poor wretches who have arrived with a pathetic cardboard suitcase and spend their days standing in line outside consulates and shipping offices hoping to get hold of a visa or a passage to America that they might never receive; I feel sorry for the families who sleep all piled up in filthy boardinghouses and go to the soup kitchens for their food, the poor girls offering themselves up on street corners in exchange for a handful of escudos, the old men who kill time in the cafés, sitting in front of dirty cups that have been empty for hours, until the waiter throws them out onto the street to make room for someone else. Those are the ones I feel sorry for. But the ones who gamble away a part of their fortune every night at the casino—I don’t have any pity for them at all.”

What she was describing to me was moving, but I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted: we were on the right track, we had to keep going whatever it took. Even if it meant tugging at her conscience.

“You’re right; the situation is much more extreme for those poor people. Besides, it must be painful for them to see so many Germans moving so freely all over the place.”

“I imagine so…”

“And it must be especially hard for them knowing that the government of the country they’ve come to is so keen to oblige the Third Reich.”

“I suppose so…”

“And that there are even some Portuguese businessmen who are expanding their businesses at the cost of a few juicy contracts with the Nazis…”

I spoke those words in a thick, dark tone, moving closer to her and lowering my voice. We held each other’s gaze, both unable to look away.

“Who are you?” she asked finally, her voice barely audible. She’d leaned back, moving her body away from the desk and against the back of her chair, as though trying to get away from me. Her unsettled tone was full of fear; her eyes, however, didn’t look away from mine for a second.

“I’m just a dressmaker,” I whispered. “A simple working woman like you, who doesn’t like what’s happening around her any more than you do.”

I noticed how her neck tensed up as she swallowed, and then I formulated two questions. Slowly. Very slowly.

“What does Da Silva have to do with the Germans, Beatriz? What’s he involved in?”

She swallowed again and her throat moved as though she were trying to get an elephant down it.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she managed to murmur at last.

An annoyed voice came from the door.

“Remind me never to go back to the restaurant on the Rua de São Julião. It took us more than an hour to get served, and me with all the things I have to get ready before Don Manuel comes back. Oh! I’m sorry, Senhorita Agoriuq, I didn’t know you were here…”

“I was just going,” I said with feigned self-assurance, picking up my bag. “I came by to pay a surprise visit to Senhor Da Silva, but Senhorita Oliveira has told me he’s traveling. Anyway, I’ll come back some other day.”

“You’ve left your cigarettes,” I heard a voice say behind me.

Beatriz Oliveira was still talking in a dull tone. When she held her arm out to pass me the cigarette case, I held on to her hand and squeezed it.

“Think about it.”

I didn’t take the elevator but went down the stairs instead, going back over the scene in my mind. Perhaps it was rash on my part to expose myself like that so quickly, but the secretary’s attitude led me to suspect that she knew something: something she didn’t tell me more out of uncertainty about me than loyalty to her employer. Da Silva and his secretary somehow didn’t quite fit together, and I was sure she’d never tell him what happened during that strange visit. While he’d been busy playing both sides, not only had a fake Moroccan woman been poking around in his business, but a subversive leftist had already infiltrated his staff. I’d have to arrange things somehow so that I could see her alone again. As to how, when, and where, I hadn’t the faintest idea.

Tuesday dawned rainy, and I repeated my routine from the previous days, playing the role of buyer and allowing João to take me to my destination, this time a textile mill on the outskirts of Lisbon. The chauffeur came to pick me up again three hours later.

“Let’s go to Baixa, please, João.”

“If you were expecting to see Don Manuel, he’s not back yet.”

Perfect, I thought. I wasn’t planning to see Da Silva, but to find some way of approaching Beatriz Oliveira again.

“That doesn’t matter, the secretaries can help me. I just have a question on my order.”

I was counting on the older assistant having gone out to lunch again and her frugal companion remaining chained to her desk, but as though someone had gone to great efforts to thwart my desires, what I found was exactly the opposite. The veteran was at her post, going over documents with her glasses down on the tip of her nose. And no sign of the younger one at all.

“Good afternoon, Senhora Somoza. So I see they’ve left you all alone.”

“Don Manuel is still traveling, and Senhorita Oliveira hasn’t come in to work today. How can I help you, Senhorita Agoriuq?”

I felt a taste of annoyance mixed with alarm, but I swallowed it as best I could.

“I hope she’s not unwell,” I said, not answering her question.

“No, I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Her brother came by this morning to let me know that she was indisposed and had a bit of a fever, but I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow.”

I wavered for a few seconds. Fast, Sira, think fast: act, ask where she lives, try to track her down, I commanded myself.