María Dueñas - The Time in Between

Then she looked me in the eyes, serious and dark like I’d never seen her before.

“Things are ugly, child, very ugly,” she said through clenched teeth. “There’s no pity here, no consideration, and anyone who’s worth anything gets taken away before you can say amen. Many poor wretches have already died, decent people who never killed a fly. Be very careful, honey; you’re not going to be the next one.”

Again I drew a crumb of good cheer out of nowhere, so that the two of us might convince ourselves of something even I didn’t believe.

“Don’t worry, Candelaria; you’ll see, we’ll get out of this somehow.”

And without another word, I made my way to the bench and began climbing with that sinister cargo strapped to my skin. I left the Matutera behind me, watching from beneath as she made the sign of the cross amid whispers and vines: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, may the Virgin of Miracles go with you, my angel. The last thing I heard was a noisy kiss she gave to her fingers at the end of the ritual. One second later I disappeared behind the garden wall and fell like a bundle into the grocer’s yard.

Ireached the way out of baker Menahen’s in less than five minutes. In the process I caught myself several times on nails and splinters that were impossible to see in the darkness. I grazed my wrist, tripped on the haik, slipped, and nearly lost my balance as I climbed up a huge pile of boxes stored in a disordered heap against a wall. Once I’d reached the door, the first thing I did was to arrange the haik so that all that could be seen of my face were my eyes. Then I slid the rusty bolt, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.

There was no one in the alley, not a shadow or a sound. My only company was the moon, moving freely between the clouds. I started walking slowly, sticking close to the left side, and before long I’d arrived at La Luneta. Before turning onto the street I paused at the corner to determine the lay of the land. Yellowish lights hung from the cables over the road to serve as street lamps. Looking left and right, I was able to recognize some of the establishments—now asleep—in which chaotic life went on during the day: the Hotel Victoria, Zurita Pharmacy, Levante Bar where they would often sing flamenco, Galindo the tobacconist’s, and a salt depository; the Teatro Nacional, the Indian bazaars, four or five taverns whose names I didn’t know, La Perla Jeweler’s, which belonged to the Cohen brothers, and La Espiga de Oro, where we’d go every morning to buy our bread. All of them silent, closed, peaceful as the dead.

Once on La Luneta, I struggled to adapt my pace to the weight of my cargo. After a short stretch, I directed myself toward the mellah , the Jewish quarter. The linear pattern of its extremely narrow streets comforted me, for its precise grid made it impossible to lose one’s bearings. Then I entered the medina, and at first everything went well as I passed by familiar places: the Bread Souq, the Meat Souq. I didn’t meet anyone, not a soul, not even a dog or a blind tramp begging for alms. All I could hear was the muffled sound of my own slippers dragging along the paving stones and the murmur of some fountain or other lost in the distance. I noticed that the pistols seemed less and less heavy, that my body was getting used to its new dimensions. From time to time I patted myself down just to confirm that everything was still in place: first the sides, then the arms, then the hips. I was still tense and couldn’t quite manage to relax, but at least I was walking with reasonable calm down the dark, winding streets between the whitewashed walls and the wooden doors studded with thick-headed nails.

To banish the worry from my head, I made myself imagine what those Arab houses were like on the inside. I’d heard they were beautiful and cool, with patios, fountains, and galleries of mosaics and tiles; with carved wooden ceilings and sunlight caressing the flat roofs. There was no way you could tell all that from the street, where all you could see were their whitewashed walls. I kept musing in this way, until after a while, when I thought I’d walked enough and was a hundred percent sure that I hadn’t raised the slightest suspicion, I decided to head toward Puerta de la Luneta. And it was then, precisely at that moment, that I noticed—at the end of the alley I was walking down—a couple of figures approaching. Two soldiers, officers in breeches, with sashes at their waists and the red caps of the Spanish regulars; four legs walking resolutely, their boots sounding on the cobbles as they talked in quiet, nervous voices. I held my breath as a thousand grim images torpedoed my mind like explosions battering a wall. Suddenly I feared that just as I passed them all the pistols would come loose from their ties and scatter noisily onto the ground; I imagined that it might occur to one of them to pull my hood back and expose my face, that they would make me speak, that they’d discover I was a Spanish compatriot of theirs dealing guns illegally and not some local woman on her way to nowhere in particular.

The men passed alongside me; I stuck as closely as I could to the wall, but the alley was so narrow that we almost brushed against one another. They didn’t pay me the least bit of attention, however, ignoring my presence as though I were invisible and continuing their conversation as they proceeded hastily on their way. They were talking about detachments and munitions, about things I didn’t understand or want to understand. Two hundred, two fifty at the most, one of them said as they passed. No, absolutely not, I’m telling you that’s not right, replied the other vehemently. I didn’t see their faces, I didn’t dare look up, but as soon as their voices faded into the distance I picked up my pace and finally felt I could breathe again.

Just a few seconds later, however, I realized I shouldn’t have declared victory quite so soon: looking up, I discovered that I didn’t know where I was. In order to keep my bearings I would have had to take a right turn three or four corners earlier, but the unexpected appearance of the soldiers had thrown me so much that I hadn’t. At the thought that I was lost, a shiver ran over my skin. I’d crossed the streets of the medina many times but still didn’t know its secrets and mysteries. Without sunlight to guide me and in the absence of the usual activity and sounds, I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was.

I decided to turn back and retrace my steps but was unable to do so. When I thought that I was about to walk into a little square I knew, I found an archway instead; when I expected a passageway, I came across a mosque or a flight of stairs. I proceeded awkwardly along the winding streets, trying to associate every corner with its daytime activities in order to get my bearings. But the more I walked, the more lost I felt in those intricate streets that defied all laws of reason. With the craftsmen asleep and their shops shut, I couldn’t tell whether I was passing through the district of the coppersmiths or the tinsmiths, or whether I was going through the section where by day the thread makers, weavers, and tailors worked. In the area where vendors’ stands with honey sweets, round flatbreads, mountains of spices, and bunches of basil might have helped me to orient myself, I found only locked doors and bolted shutters. Time seemed to have stopped, everything seemed like an empty stage set without the voices of the merchants and the buyers, without the trains of donkeys laden with panniers or the women from the Rif sitting on the ground, surrounded by green vegetables and oranges that they might never be able to sell. My anxiety increased: I didn’t know what time it was, but I was only too aware that there was less and less time remaining before six o’clock. I picked up the pace; exiting an alleyway, I went into another, and another, and yet another; I retraced my steps, attempting to correct my route again. Nothing. Not a clue, not a sign: everything had suddenly been transformed into an accursed labyrinth with no way out.