María Dueñas - The Time in Between

But what I felt in my bones, as the final rays of sunlight accompanied my return home, wasn’t exactly happiness, either. Or emotion, or excitement. Perhaps the word that best fit the feeling that overwhelmed me was pride. For the first time in a long while, perhaps for the first time in my life, I felt proud of myself. Proud of what I was capable of, what I had been able to get through, proud of having acquitted myself better than had been expected of me. Proud to know that I was capable of making this world full of madmen a safer place. Proud of the woman I had become.

Yes, it was true that Hillgarth had spurred me on to do it, placing me teetering at the very edge of a chasm. Just as it was true that Marcus had saved my life by getting me off a moving train, and that without his timely help I wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale. Yes, all that was true. But it was also true that I’d made my own contribution, with my courage and my determination, to bring the mission I’d been assigned to a successful conclusion. All my fears, all the sleepless nights and the leaps without a safety net had been worth something after all: not only to get hold of information that would come in handy for the dirty art of war, but also, and especially, to show myself and those around me what I was capable of.

And then, as I became aware of my possible scope, I knew the time had come for me to stop going blindly down the paths that other people had set for me. It had been Hillgarth’s idea to send me to Lisbon, Manuel Da Silva had decided to get rid of me, Marcus Logan had chosen to come to my rescue. I’d passed between them from hand to hand, like a puppet: for good or ill, for the glory of heaven or the fires of hell, they had all made decisions for me, manipulated me like someone moving a pawn on a chessboard. No one had been open with me, no one had been honest with me about his intentions: it was time now to demand some enlightenment. Time for me to take up the reins of my own existence, to choose my own path, to decide how and with whom I was to follow it. I’d stumble along the way, make missteps, encounter broken glass, accidents, and pools of dark mud. I wasn’t facing an easy future, I was quite sure about that. But the time had come to stop moving forward without any awareness of the terrain I was on and the risks I’d be taking when I got up each morning. In short, it was time to be the mistress of my own life.

Those three men, Marcus Logan, Manuel Da Silva, and Alan Hillgarth, each of them in his own way—and probably without any of them being aware of it—had helped me to grow in just a few short days. Or perhaps I’d been growing slowly for a long time and it wasn’t until now that I’d become aware of my new stature. I probably wouldn’t see Da Silva again; as for Hillgarth and Marcus, however, I was sure I’d be staying close to them for quite some time. One of them in particular I was eager to keep exactly as close as he’d been in the early hours of that morning: a closeness of affections and bodies—the recollection still made me shiver. But first of all I had to mark out the limits of the new terrain. Clearly. Visibly. Like someone drawing a line on the ground with a piece of chalk.

When I arrived home I found an envelope that somebody had slipped under the door. It bore the logo of the Palace Hotel and a handwritten card inside.

“Going back to Lisbon. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Wait for me.”

Of course I’d wait for him. Figuring out how and where took me just a couple of hours.

That night I once again bypassed the rules about chain of command without the slightest flicker of remorse. After more than three uninterrupted hours that afternoon, when Hillgarth and I had finished going through all the details of the meeting at the estate, I asked him about the lists he’d brought up when we met the day after the events at the Hippodrome.

“It’s all still the same; for now there’s no news, as far as we know.”

That meant that my father was still on the side of the friends of the English, and I was with the Germans. A great pity, because the moment had come for our paths to cross once more.

I turned up without giving him any warning. Ghosts from another age fluttered furiously when they saw me walk through the front door, bringing with them memories of the day my mother and I had climbed that same staircase, filled with worry. They quickly vanished, fortunately, and took with them some bitter recollections I preferred not to face.

The door was opened by a servant who bore no resemblance to old Servanda.

“I need to see Señor Alvarado immediately. It’s urgent. Is he home?”

She nodded, confused at my haste.

“In the library?”

“Yes, but…”

Before she was able to finish her sentence, I was already inside.

“No need to announce me, thank you.”

He was glad to see me, much more so than I’d expected. Before leaving for Portugal I’d sent him a brief note informing him about my trip, but something must have seemed strange to him. All too hasty, he must have thought; too close to that unsettling scene at the races. He was reassured to know I was back.

The library was just as I’d remembered it. Perhaps more books and papers had accumulated: newspapers, letters, piles of magazines. Everything else was just as it had been when we’d met there, my father, my mother, and me, years earlier: the first time the three of us had been together, and also the last. That distant autumn afternoon I’d arrived burdened down with nerves and innocence, inhibited and oppressed by the unknown. Almost six years later, my feeling of self-confidence was quite different. I’d won it with blows, with work, through missteps and longings, and it clung to my skin like a scar; nothing could free me from it. However strongly the winds blew, however tough the times to come might be, I knew I’d have the strength to face them and make it through.

“I need to ask you a favor, Gonzalo.”

“Anything you want.”

“A meeting for five people. A little private party. Here at your house, on Tuesday night. You and me and three other guests. You’ll have to invite two of them directly, without letting them find out that I’m involved. There won’t be any problem, as you know them both.”

“And the third?”

“I’ll take care of the third myself.”

He accepted without any further questions or any reservations. In spite of my unnerving behavior, my unexpected disappearances, and my fake identity, he seemed to trust me blindly.

“What time?” he asked simply.

“I’ll be here in the midafternoon. And the guest you don’t yet know will arrive at six; I’ll have to talk to him before the others arrive. Can I meet him here in the library?”

“It’s all yours.”

“Perfect. Invite the other couple for eight, please. And one more thing—do you mind them knowing that I’m your daughter? It’ll stay between the five of us.”

It took a few seconds for him to reply, during which I thought I saw a new sparkle come to his eyes.

“It would be a matter of honor and pride.”

We chatted a little while longer: about Lisbon and Madrid; about this, that, and the other, always remaining on safe ground. When I was just about to leave, however, his usual discretion failed him.

“I know it’s not my place to meddle in your life at this stage, Sira, but… ”

I turned and hugged him.

“Thank you for everything. You’ll find out all about it on Tuesday.”

Marcus appeared at the appointed time. I’d left a message for him at his hotel, and as I’d expected it reached him easily. He had no idea whose address that was: he just knew that I’d be waiting for him there. And there I was indeed, in a red silk crêpe suit, dazzling right down to my toes. Made up to perfection, with my long neck uncovered and dark hair gathered in a high bun. Waiting.