María Dueñas - The Time in Between

The priest came up to the altar from a side door, a tiny figure in the distance. The entire congregation rose to its feet, including the two of us.

“Who are these Germans?” I whispered from under my veil.

“Weiss is the only one who’s come to the office—three times. He never speaks to them on the telephone; he thinks the line might be being tapped. I know that outside the office he’s also met up with another one, Wolters. This week they’re expecting a third one to come from Spain. They’re all going to be having dinner at his estate tomorrow—Thursday night: Don Manuel, the Germans, and the Portuguese owners of the neighboring mines in Beira. That’s where they’re expecting to close the deal: he’s been in discussions with the mine owners for weeks to get them to supply only to the Germans, nobody else. They’ll all be there with their wives and he’s anxious to treat them well: I know that because he made me order flowers and chocolates to welcome them.”

The priest finished, and the whole church sat back down amid the sounds of rustling, sighs, and the creaking of old wood.

“He’s alerted us”—she went on, her head bent down again—“not to put through any calls from certain Englishmen he used to be on good terms with. And this morning he had a meeting in the basement with two men, two ex-convicts he sometimes uses for protection; from time to time he’s found himself in trouble. I was only able to overhear the end of the conversation. He ordered them to deal with these Englishmen, and, if necessary, to neutralize them.”

“What did he mean, ‘neutralize them’?”

“Get them out of the way, I guess.”

“How?”

“Use your imagination.”

The congregation stood up again, and again we joined them. They began to chant with fervent voices, and I felt my blood thundering in my temples.

“Do you know what the names of these Englishmen are?”

“I’ve written them down.”

Stealthily she pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand.

“I promise I don’t know anything else.”

“Send someone again if you hear anything new,” I said, thinking of my open balcony doors.

“I will. And please, don’t use my name. And don’t come by the office anymore.”

I couldn’t promise her that I’d do as she said because like a black crow she immediately took flight. I remained a short while longer, sheltered between the stone columns, the off-key chants, and the murmur of the litany. When I had finally managed to get over the impact of what I’d heard, I unfolded the piece of paper and confirmed that my worst fears were not unfounded. Beatriz Oliveira had given me a list of five names. The fourth was Marcus Logan.

Like every afternoon at that hour, the hotel lobby was lively and crowded. Filled with foreigners, ladies with pearls and men in linen suits or in uniform; filled with conversation, with the smell of expensive tobacco and the movement of bustling bellhops. And most likely filled with some undesirable types, too. One of them was there to meet me. Although I faked a reaction of surprised delight, I felt my skin crawl when I saw him. To look at him, he was just the same Manuel Da Silva of the previous days: sure of himself in his perfect suit, his first white hairs giving a sign of his forthcoming maturity, alert and smiling. Just seeing him provoked such revulsion in me that I had to curb my impulse to turn around and run. Out onto the street, to the beach, to the end of the world. Anywhere far from him. Before, everything had been mere suspicion; there had still been room to hope that beneath that attractive appearance was a decent human being. I knew now that that wasn’t the case, that regrettably the worst predictions had been correct. The Hillgarths’ assumptions had been confirmed in the church meeting: integrity and loyalty don’t go well with business during wartime, and Da Silva had sold himself to the Germans. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’d made a sinister addition to the deal: if his old friends bothered him, he’d have to get rid of them. Remembering that Marcus was among them gave me a jolt in the gut all over again.

My body was begging to run away from him but I couldn’t do it: not only because a heavy load of trunks and suitcases was momentarily blocking the hotel’s large revolving door, but for other much more forceful reasons. I’d just learned that twenty-four hours from now Da Silva was planning to wine and dine his German contacts. No doubt that was the meeting that Hillgarth’s wife had predicted, and it would probably be there that all the detailed information that the English were so keen to learn would be circulating. My next aim would be to try by any means to get myself invited to attend, but time wasn’t on my side. I had no choice but to rush ahead.

“My condolences, my dear Arish.”

It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what he was referring to. He probably attributed my silence to the fact that I was moved.

“Thank you,” I murmured when the penny dropped. “My father wasn’t a Christian, but I like to honor his memory with a few minutes of religious devotion.”

“Do you feel like a drink? Maybe it’s not a good time, but I heard you’ve been by my office a couple of times and I’ve just come to return the visit. Please excuse my repeated absence: I’ve been traveling much more than I’d like lately.”

“I think a drink would do me good, thank you, it’s been a long day. And yes, I did stop by your office, but just to say hello; everything else has been going perfectly.” Plucking up all my courage, I managed to polish off the sentence with a smile.

We made our way out to the terrace where we’d sat on that first night and everything returned to how it had been. Or almost. All the props were the same; the palm trees moved by the breeze, the ocean in the background, the silver moon, and the champagne at just the right temperature. And yet there was something not quite right with the scene. Something that had nothing to do with me, or the setting. I watched Manuel as he greeted the patrons around us again, and then I realized that it was he who was jarring in the middle of the harmony: he wasn’t behaving naturally. He was trying hard to be charming, and as usual deploying the whole catalog of friendly phrases and amiable expressions, but no sooner had the person he was addressing turned away than his mouth adopted a serious, determined grimace that automatically disappeared again the moment he turned his focus back on me.

“So you’ve bought more material…”

“And also thread, accessories, ornaments, and a million notions.”

“Your clients are going to be delighted.”

“The Germans especially.”

Now I’d thrown a stone into a pool of still water—it had to draw a response from him: this was my last chance to get myself invited to his house; if I couldn’t do it, the mission would be over. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“The German ladies are my most demanding clients, the ones who really appreciate quality,” I explained. “The Spaniards are concerned with the final look of the piece, but the Germans concentrate on the perfection of every little detail; they’re much more exacting. Fortunately I’ve been able to conform to their wishes and we get along without any problem. I think I’ve actually got a gift for keeping them happy,” I said, finishing off my sentence with a mischievous wink.

I brought the glass to my lips and had to force myself not to drain the whole thing in one go. Come on, Manuel, come on, I thought. React—invite me. I could be useful to you, I could entertain your guests’ companions while you negotiate over the spit of the wolf and find out how to get the English off your back.