María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“But I’ve got to go back,” I insisted weakly. “That’s where my mother is, my home…”

He struggled to keep his impatience in check. My insistence was troubling him more and more, though he tried not to contradict me, bearing in mind my delicate state. In other circumstances he might have treated me with much less leniency.

“Look, I don’t know which side you’re on, if you’re with the government or in favor of the insurrection.” His voice had recovered all its strength after the brief moment of decline; most likely tiredness and the tension of these turbulent days had momentarily taken their toll. “To be honest, after everything I’ve had to witness in these past weeks, your position doesn’t trouble me all that much; in fact, I’d just rather not know about it. All I do is go on with my work, trying to keep political issues on the sidelines; there are too many people worrying about them already, unfortunately. But ironically, luck—for once, though it’s hard to believe—has come down on your side. Here in Tetouan, the heart of the uprising, you’ll be absolutely safe because no one but me will take an interest in your business with the law, and believe me, it’s pretty murky business. Enough to keep you—under normal conditions—in prison for quite some time.”

I tried to protest, alarmed and filled with panic. He didn’t let me—he halted my objections with a raised hand and went on talking.

“I imagine that in Madrid by now they’ve stopped most police proceedings along with any legal cases that aren’t political or on a significant scale: with all they’ve been through, I don’t imagine anyone has any interest in coming to Morocco in pursuit of an alleged typewriter company swindler and thief of her father’s estate, accused by her own brother. A few weeks ago these would have been reasonably serious matters, but nowadays they’re trivial compared to what’s happening in the capital.”

“And so?” I asked, unsure.

“And so what you’re going to do is stay right where you are, not make the slightest attempt to leave Tetouan, and do everything you can to avoid causing the least bit of trouble. My assignment is to oversee the supervision and security of the Protectorate zone, and I don’t think you’re a great threat to that. But just in case, I don’t want you out of my sight. So you’ll stay here awhile and steer clear of any kind of trouble. And you are not to consider this a piece of advice or a suggestion; it’s got the full force of an order. It’s a rather unusual kind of detention: I’m not putting you in jail or restricting you to house arrest, so you will enjoy relative freedom. But you are absolutely forbidden from leaving the city without my prior consent, is that clear?”

“Until when?” I said, without affirming what he had asked. The idea of remaining alone for an indefinite period in that unfamiliar city seemed the worst possible option.

“Until the situation calms down in Spain and we see how things are resolved. Then I’ll decide what to do with you; right now I have neither the time nor the means to deal with your affairs. For the immediate future, you’ll only have one problem to face: the debt to the hotel in Tangiers.”

“But I have no way of paying that much…,” I explained, again on the verge of tears.

“I know: I’ve searched your luggage from top to bottom, and apart from a jumble of clothes and a few papers, I’ve been able to confirm that you don’t have anything else with you. But for now you’re the only person we’ve got whom we can hold responsible, and in this matter you’re just as implicated as Arribas. Which means that in his absence, you will be the one who’ll have to meet the demands. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to get you out of this, because Tangiers knows I’ve got you here, absolutely under control.”

“But he took my money…,” I insisted, my voice breaking with tears again.

“I know that, too, and stop that damned crying once and for all, would you please? In his note Arribas makes it all clear: in his own words the scoundrel expresses quite openly that he means to leave you high and dry and without a cent, taking all your belongings with him. And dragging a pregnancy with you that you ended up losing no sooner than you set foot in Tetouan, stepping off the bus.”

The confusion in my face, mixed with my tears, pain, and frustration, forced him to frame a question.

“You don’t remember? I was the one waiting for you there. We’d got a tip-off from the police in Tangiers alerting us to your arrival. It seems some bellhop in the hotel made a comment to the manager about your hasty departure; he thought you looked strange and raised the alarm. They then discovered that you had left the room with no intention of returning. Since the sum you owed was considerable, they alerted the police, tracked down the taxi driver who had taken you to the La Valenciana bus stop, and discovered that you were headed here. In normal circumstances I would have sent one of my men to fetch you, but with things being so tempestuous lately I now prefer to supervise everything personally to avoid unpleasant surprises, so I decided to find you myself. No sooner had you gotten off the bus than you fainted in my arms; I brought you here myself.”

A few blurry recollections were starting to take shape in my memory. The stifling heat of that bus, which everyone just called La Valenciana. The shouting inside, the baskets with live chickens, the sweat and smells coming off the bodies and the bundles that the passengers, Moors and Spaniards, were carrying with them. The feeling of a thick moisture between my thighs. And once we’d arrived in Tetouan, the extreme weakness as I got off, the shock when I realized that a hot substance was running down my legs, a thick, black trickle that I was leaving behind me. No sooner had I touched the tarmac of the new city than a man’s voice was emerging from a face half obscured under a hat brim. “Sira Quiroga? Police. Come with me, please.” At that moment I was assailed by an infinite weakness, my mind clouding over and my legs no longer able to support me, and I lost consciousness. Now, weeks later, I was once again looking at that face, still uncertain whether it belonged to my executioner or my savior.

“Sister Virtudes has been in charge of passing information on to me about your progress. I’ve been trying for days to speak to you, but until now they denied me access. They told me you have pernicious anemia, as well as a number of other things. But, well, it seems you’re doing better now, which is why they’ve allowed me to see you and are going to discharge you in the next few days.”

“And where will I go?” My anxiety was as overwhelming as my fear. I felt unable to confront an unknown reality all by myself. I’d never done anything without help, I’d always had someone walking ahead to show me the way: my mother, Ignacio, Ramiro. I felt useless, unfit to face life and its challenges alone, unable to survive without a hand leading me firmly, without a head making decisions for me, without a nearby presence in whom to trust, and on whom to depend.

“On that matter,” he said, “I’ve been looking for a place—don’t think it’s easy, the way things are now. In any case, I want to learn more of your story. So if you feel strong enough I’d like to come back and see you again tomorrow, in case there may be some detail that will help us to resolve the problems that were dumped on you by your husband, your fiancé…”

“Or whatever that son of a bitch was,” I completed with an ironic grimace as weak as it was bitter.

“Were you married?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“That’s better for you,” he concluded decisively. Then he consulted his watch. “Well, I don’t want to tire you out any further,” he said, getting up, “I think that’s enough for today. I’ll come back tomorrow, I don’t know what time; when I have a moment free. We’re up to our eyeballs right now.”