María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Onward, honey, it’s getting late,” the Matutera said in a commanding whisper. “Better if no one sees you coming out of this house; you never know if Palomares is around, and then we’d be screwed from the start. So we’ll go out the back.”

We went out onto the little patio behind the building and were greeted by the black night, as well as a twisted vine, a pile of junk, and the telegraph man’s old bicycle. We remained hidden in a corner and began speaking in low voices.

“Now what do I do?” I murmured.

She seemed to have everything well thought out and spoke firmly.

“You go up onto this bench and climb over the wall, but you’ve got to do it very carefully. If not, you’re going to get the haik tangled between your legs and find yourself face-first on the ground.”

I looked at the wall, which was about six feet high, and the smaller adjacent one I’d have to scale to get to the top and be able to jump down to the other side. Preferring not to wonder whether I’d be capable of doing it encumbered by the weight of the pistols and wrapped in all that cloth, I simply asked for further instructions. “And from there?”

“When you’ve jumped, you’ll be in the yard behind Don Leandro’s grocery store; from there, if you climb onto the boxes and barrels he’s got scattered about, you can easily get into the next yard, which is behind the pastry shop of Menahen the Jew. There, at the back, you’ll find a little wooden door that’ll let you out into a side alley, which is where the sacks of flour come in for the bakery. Once you’re outside, forget who you are. Cover yourself up well, hunch yourself over, and get walking toward the Jewish neighborhood, and from there, you go into the Moorish quarter. But take care, girl: don’t rush, and stay close to the wall, dragging your feet a little as though you were an old woman, so that no one will see you walking too nicely and some undesirable won’t try something. There are a lot of young Spanish lads who can get captivated by the charms of the Muslim women.”

“And then?”

“When you get to the Moorish quarter, walk around the streets a few times just to be sure that no one’s watching or following you. If you meet anyone, change your route cleverly or get as far away from them as you can. After a bit, come back out of Puerta de la Luneta and head down to the park—you know where I mean, right?”

“I think so,” I said, struggling to map the route in my mind.

“Once you’re there you’ll find yourself opposite the station: cross the Ceuta road and go in wherever you find it open, slowly and well concealed. Most likely there won’t be anyone there but a couple of half-asleep soldiers who won’t pay you the slightest attention. You’ll probably find some Moroccans waiting for the train to Ceuta; the Christians won’t start arriving till later.”

“What time does the train go?”

“Half past seven. But the Moors, as you know, have quite a different rhythm to their schedules, so nobody will find it strange that you’re wandering around there at six in the morning.”

“And should I board the train, too, or what do I do?”

Candelaria took a few seconds to reply, and I guessed that her plan hadn’t been plotted out much further.

“No, in theory you don’t need to take the train. When you reach the station, sit down for a little bit on the bench under the timetable board, let them see you there, and that way they’ll know that it’s you who’s got the merchandise.”

“Who is it that has to see me?”

“Don’t worry about that: whoever has to see you will see you. After twenty minutes, get up off the bench, go to the café, and find some way for the man working behind the counter to tell you where you are to leave the pistols.”

“That’s it?” I asked in alarm. “And if the café man isn’t there, or if he ignores me, or if I can’t speak to him, what do I do?”

“Ssssshhhh. Don’t raise your voice, they’ll hear us. Don’t you worry, somehow you’ll find out what you have to do,” she said impatiently, unable to imbue her words with the reassurance that was evidently needed. Then she decided to level with me. “Look, child, everything’s gone so bad tonight that they couldn’t tell me more than that: the pistols have to be at the station at six in the morning; the person carrying them has to sit for twenty minutes under the timetable board; and the café man is the one who will tell you how to make the delivery. More than that I don’t know, my child, and I’m really sorry about that. But don’t worry, precious, you’ll see how once you’re there everything will work itself out.”

I wanted to say I doubted it very much, but her worried face warned me not to. For the first time since I’d known her, the Matutera’s resolve and her tenacity in finding ingenious solutions to the muddiest situations seemed to have hit rock bottom. But I knew that if she’d been in a position to act herself, she wouldn’t have been afraid: she’d have managed to get to the station and do what was required using whatever wiles she had at hand. The problem was that this time Candelaria was tied hand and foot, immobilized in her house by the threat of a police search that might or might not happen that night. And I knew that if I wasn’t able to respond and take a firm grip on the reins, it would all be over for us. So I summoned up some strength from nowhere and armed myself with courage.

“You’re right, Candelaria: I’ll find a way, don’t worry about it. But first, tell me one thing.”

“Whatever you want, child, but move fast, it’s less than two hours to go till six,” she added, trying to disguise her relief at seeing me ready to keep fighting.

“Where will the guns end up? Who are these men from Larache?”

“You don’t care about that, girl. What matters is that they arrive when and where they’re supposed to; that you leave the merchandise where you’re told to and collect the money they have to give you: nine thousand five hundred pesetas, remember that, and count the notes one by one. Then you return in a flash. I’ll be waiting here holding my breath… ”

“We’re taking a huge risk, Candelaria,” I insisted. “At least let me know who it is we’re dealing with.”

She sighed deeply and her chest, barely half covered by the smock she’d thrown over herself at the last minute, rose and fell again as though under the influence of a pump.

“They’re Masons,” she whispered in my ear, as though afraid of pronouncing a curse. “They were supposed to arrive tonight in a van from Larache, most likely they’re already hiding out near Buselmal Springs or in some vegetable garden on the Río Martín plain. They come through the villages, they don’t dare travel on the main roads. They’ll probably pick the guns up wherever you leave them and won’t even get on the train. I’d say they’ll probably return to their city directly from the station, going back through the villages again and avoiding Tetouan completely; that is, if they aren’t caught first, God forbid. But anyway, that’s just a guess, because the truth is I haven’t a goddamn clue what these men are up to.”

She sighed deeply, looking out into the emptiness, and then went on in a low voice.

“What I do know, child, because everyone else knows it, too, is that those involved in the uprising have violently taken their anger out on anyone who has anything to do with Freemasonry. Some of them were shot in the head during their own meetings; the lucky ones fled as fast as they could to Tangiers or the French zone. Others were taken to El Mogote and someday they’ll be shot and never heard from again. And probably there are a few hiding in cellars, lofts, and storerooms, afraid that one day someone will betray them and they will be beaten out of their sanctuaries with rifle butts. That’s why I couldn’t find anyone at first who would dare buy the merchandise. After asking around I managed to get hold of the contact in Larache, and that’s how I know that’s where the pistols will end up.”