María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“But we were going to start up a new life, we were going to open a business, we were just waiting for confirmation,” I babbled.

“You’re referring to the thing with the typewriters?” he asked, taking another envelope out of his pocket. “You wouldn’t have been able to do it—you didn’t have the authorization. The owners of the academies in Argentina didn’t have the least interest in expanding their business to the other side of the Atlantic, and they made this clear in April.” He saw the confusion in my face. “Arribas never told you that, did he?”

I recalled my daily visits to the reception desk, hopeful, longing to receive that letter that I believed would change our lives. Ramiro had already had it for months without ever letting me know. My resolve to defend him was dissipating, turning to smoke. I clung with what little strength I had to my last remaining trace of hope.

“But he loved me…”

The commissioner smiled with a touch of bitterness mixed with something like compassion.

“That’s what all his kind say. Look, miss, don’t fool yourself: men like Arribas only love themselves. They can be affectionate and seem generous; they’re usually charming, but at the moment of truth the only thing that interests them is their own hide, and at the first sign of things getting a little tricky they’re out the door like a shot. They’ll step on anyone they need to so as not to be caught in a lie. This time the person hurt worst has been you; bad luck, without a doubt. I don’t question that he thought highly of you, but one fine day a better project came along and you became a burden he was no longer interested in dragging along. That’s why he left you. Don’t try and think about it any more. You’re not at fault for anything, but there isn’t a lot we can do to alter what is irreversible.”

I didn’t want to plunge further into those thoughts about the sincerity of Ramiro’s love; it was too painful for me. I preferred to return to practical matters.

“And the thing with Hispano-Olivetti? What am I supposed to have to do with that?”

He breathed in and breathed out hard, as though readying himself to broach something that didn’t appeal to him.

“That business is even more tangled. Right now, there’s no cast-iron proof to exculpate you, though personally I would surmise that it’s another scam into which you’ve been drawn by your husband, or your fiancé, or whatever this Arribas is. The official version of the facts is that you are the owner of a business that has received a number of typewriters that were never paid for.”

“He thought of setting up a business in my name, but I didn’t realize… I didn’t know… I didn’t…”

“That’s what I believe, that you had no idea about all the things he was using you to front. Let me tell you what I think really happened. Correct me if I’m wrong: your father gave you some money and some jewels, correct?”

I nodded.

“And then Arribas offered to register a company in your name, and to put all the money and jewels away in the safe of the company where he worked, correct?”

I nodded again.

“Well, he didn’t do it. Or rather, he did do it, but not as a simple deposit in your name. With that money he made a purchase from his own company, pretending that it was an order from the import-export firm he told you about, Quiroga Typewriters, for which you appeared as owner. He paid punctually with your money, and Hispano-Olivetti suspected absolutely nothing: just one more order, a large one, well negotiated, and that was that. As for Arribas, he then resold the machines, I don’t know to whom or how. Thus far everything was quite correct as far as Hispano-Olivetti’s accounting was concerned, and satisfactory for Arribas who, without having a single cent of his own money, had done a terrific deal in his favor. Well, a few weeks later he arranged another large order in your name, which was again fulfilled in a timely manner. The full cost of this order wasn’t met at the time; only a first installment came in, but since you were known to have good credit no one was suspicious: they imagined that the rest of the sum would be met according to the terms agreed. The problem is that the payment was never made: Arribas once again sold the merchandise, again took the profits and got out, with you and with all your capital practically intact, as well as a good slice he had managed to get with the resale and the purchase he never paid for. A coup, yes indeed, although someone should have suspected something because as I understand it your departure from Madrid was rather abrupt, was it not?”

Like a flash I remembered arriving at our home on the Plaza de las Salesas that March morning, Ramiro’s nervous rush in taking the clothes from the wardrobe and filling suitcases, the urgency he instilled in me to do the same without wasting a second. With these images in my mind, I confirmed the commissioner’s assumption. He went on.

“And so to cap it all Arribas didn’t just take your money, but he had also used it to get greater profit for himself. A very smart guy, no doubt about it.”

Tears came to my eyes again.

“Stop that. Keep your tears to yourself, please: there’s no point crying over spilt milk. But unfortunately, these things have really happened at the least convenient and most complicated time.”

I swallowed, tried to control myself, and managed to resume the conversation one more time. “Because of what you were saying the other day about the war?”

“We still don’t know how all this is going to end, but right now the situation is extremely complicated. Half of Spain is in the hands of the rebels, and the other half remains loyal to the government. The situation is unstable and no reliable news is getting out; in short, an utter disaster.”

“And here? How are things here?”

“Moderately calm at the moment; in the weeks just past, everything was in much greater turmoil. This is where it all started, didn’t you know? It was here that the insurrection arose; it was from here, from Morocco, that General Franco appeared and the troop movements began. There were bombardments in the first few days; the Republic’s air force attacked the High Commission in response to the uprising, but through bad luck they missed their target and one of the Fokkers caused quite a few civilian injuries, the death of several Moorish children, and the destruction of a mosque, which was considered by the Muslims to have been an attack on them, and they automatically took the side of the rebels. At the same time, there were also countless arrests and shooting of defenders of the Republic who were against the insurrection: the European prison filled almost to bursting, and they set up a sort of detention camp in El Mogote. Finally with the fall of the Sania Ramel Aerodrome here, very close to this hospital, the government’s bastions in the Protectorate were all done for, meaning that now the whole of the north of Africa is controlled by rebel soldiers and the situation is more or less calm. Now the worst of it is happening on the Peninsula.”

Then he rubbed his eyes with his left thumb and index finger; after that he moved his palm slowly upward, over his eyebrows, his forehead, and the roots of his hair, over the crown of his head and down the back of his neck until it reached his collar. He spoke low, as though to himself. “Let’s just see if this damned business comes to an end once and for all…”

I pulled him out of his contemplation: I couldn’t contain my uncertainty a second longer. “But am I going to be able to leave or not?”

My untimely question forced him back to reality. Decisive.

“No. Absolutely not. You won’t be able to go anywhere, least of all to Madrid. At the moment the government of the Republic is there: the people are supporting it and getting ready to resist for as long as they possibly can.”