María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Twenty-four bedrooms—that’s madness!”

“Don’t you believe it; I did it in order to make something from it. Lisbon is full of expatriates without much cash who can’t manage a long stay in a fine hotel.”

“Don’t tell me you’re running a guest house here.”

“Something like that. For elegant guests, worldly people whose sophistication can’t save them from being at the edge of an abyss. I share my home with them, they share their capital with me as far as their means allow. There’s no price: there are some who’ve enjoyed a room for two months without paying me a single escudo, and others who in exchange for having stayed a week made me a present of a diamond rivière bracelet or a Lalique brooch. I don’t give anyone a bill: each contributes whatever he or she can. These are tough times, querida: everyone just needs to survive.”

Indeed, to survive. And for me, the most immediate survival meant getting back into a three-wheeler smelling of chickens and making it back to my room in the Hotel do Parque before the morning began. I would have loved to keep chatting with Rosalinda until the end of time, lying on her big bed with no greater concerns than ringing a little bell to get someone to bring us our breakfast. But the time had come for me to go back, to resume reality, however dark it might appear. She accompanied me to the door; before opening it, she hugged me with her light body and breathed a piece of advice in my ear.

“I barely know Manuel Da Silva, but everyone in Lisbon has heard of his reputation: a great businessman, seductive and charming, and also hard as ice, merciless with his opponents, and ready to sell his soul for a good deal. Be very careful—you’re playing with fire in the company of a dangerous man.”

Clean towels,” announced the voice on the other side of the bathroom door.

“Leave them on the bed—thank you,” I shouted.

I hadn’t asked for towels, and it was odd that they should come and replace them at that time of the afternoon, but I assumed it was just a simple service mix-up.

I was standing in front of the mirror in my bathrobe and had just finished putting on my mascara. That completed my makeup: all I had left to do was get dressed. There was still nearly an hour before João was due to collect me. I’d started getting ready early to occupy my mind with some activity to stop it from imagining a disastrous ending to my brief career. But I still had plenty of time. I left the bathroom knotting the belt of my bathrobe and then hesitated, deciding what to do. I’d wait a while before getting dressed. Or maybe not, maybe I should at least start putting my stockings on. Or no, perhaps I should… And then I saw him, and instantly everything else in the world ceased to exist.

“Marcus, what are you doing here?” I stammered in disbelief. Someone had let him in when they were bringing the towels. Or perhaps not—I scanned the room and there wasn’t a towel to be seen.

He didn’t answer my question. Nor did he greet me, or even bother to justify boldly invading my room.

“Stop seeing Manuel Da Silva, Sira. Keep away from him, that’s all I’ve come to tell you.”

He spoke firmly. He was standing, his left arm resting on the back of an armchair in one corner of the room. In a white shirt and grey suit, neither tense nor relaxed: just restrained. As though he had an obligation to fulfill and no intention of failing to fulfill it.

I couldn’t reply: no words came to my mouth.

“I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with him,” he went on, “but there’s still time to stop yourself from getting too involved. Get away from here, go back to Morocco…”

“I live in Madrid now,” I managed to say at last. I was standing on the rug, still, barefoot, not knowing what to do. I remembered Rosalinda’s words that very same morning: I ought to be careful with Marcus, I didn’t know what world he was a part of now, or what business he was mixed up in. I shuddered. I didn’t know now, and maybe I never would. I waited for him to go on talking, to be able to gauge how honest I could be or how cautious; how much I should let out the Sira he knew, and how much I should keep playing the distant part of Arish Agoriuq.

He moved away from the armchair and took a few steps toward me. His face was still the same, his eyes, too. The limber body, the hairline, the color of his skin, the line of his jaw; the shoulders, the arms that had so often linked with mine as we walked, the hands that had held my fingers, the voice. Everything was suddenly so near to me, so close, and so distant at the same time.

“Leave as soon as you can, don’t see him again,” he insisted. “You don’t deserve to be with a fellow like that. I haven’t the slightest idea why you’ve changed your name, or why you’ve come to Lisbon, or what it was that brought you into contact with him. Nor do I know whether your relationship is something genuine or whether someone else has got you involved in this whole business, but I can assure you—”

“There’s nothing serious between us. I’ve come to Lisbon to buy some materials for my workshop; someone I know in Madrid put me in touch with him and we’ve met a few times. He’s just a friend.”

“No, Sira, don’t kid yourself,” he interrupted me sharply. “Manuel Da Silva doesn’t have friends. He has conquests, he has acquaintances and flatterers, and he has interested professional contacts, that’s all. And lately those contacts haven’t been quite to his taste. You’re getting involved in a murky business; we learn something new about him every day, and you should keep away from all that. He’s not the man for you.”

“Then he isn’t for you, either. But you seemed good friends that night at the casino…”

“We’re of interest to each other for purely commercial purposes—or rather, we used to be. Last I heard he doesn’t want to hear from me anymore. Not from me or anyone else English.”

I sighed with relief; his words suggested that Rosalinda had managed to track him down and have someone pass on the message. We remained standing, facing each other, but the distance between us had become smaller without either of us even noticing. A step forward from him, one from me. Another from him, another from me. When we’d started talking we’d occupied opposite ends of the room, like boxers, suspicious and on our guard, each fearful of what the other might do. As the minutes had passed we’d been getting closer, perhaps unconsciously, until we were in the middle of the room, between the desk and the foot of the bed. Within reach of each other if we just made one more move.

“I know how to look after myself, don’t worry. In the note you gave me at the casino you asked what had become of the Sira of Tetouan. Well, now you can see her—she’s become stronger. And also more skeptical, more disillusioned. Now I ask you the same question, Marcus Logan: what became of the battered journalist who arrived in Africa to conduct a long interview with the high commissioner that was never—”

A knock at the door interrupted my question; there was someone outside. At an entirely unexpected time. Instinctively I grabbed hold of Marcus’s arm.

“Ask who it is,” he whispered.

“Who’s there?” I called.

“It’s Gamboa, Senhor Da Silva’s assistant. I’ve got something for you from him,” said the voice from the hall.

With three stealthy strides, Marcus disappeared into the bathroom. I approached the door slowly, put my hand on the door handle, and took several breaths. Then I opened it, feigning casualness, to find Gamboa holding something light and colorful wrapped in tissue paper. I held out my hand to receive this thing I still hadn’t identified, but he didn’t give it to me.