María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Wait a moment,” he said then, as though he’d forgotten something.

He pulled his shirt open and withdrew a small canvas bag, a sort of pouch.

“First put this away, it’s the money agreed. In case things get complicated once we’re outside.”

“But there are still some guns left…,” I stammered as I patted down my body.

“Doesn’t matter, you fulfilled your part, so that’s what you should be paid,” he said as he hung the bag around my neck. I let him do it to me, staying still, as though numbed. “Come on now, we can’t waste a second.”

Finally I responded. Resting one foot in his linked hands, I pushed myself up until I’d gripped the window frame.

“Open it, fast,” he insisted. “Up you go—tell me quickly what you see and hear.”

The window opened onto the dark countryside. Sounds were coming from somewhere outside my range of vision: motors, wheels squealing on the gravel, firm footsteps, greetings and orders, imperious voices barking out tasks with sharp determination, as though the world was about to end, even though morning had not yet begun.

“Pizarro and García, to the cafeteria. Ruiz and Albadalejo, the ticket desks. You to the offices, you two to the urinals. Come on, everyone, quick as a flash,” shouted someone with furious authority.

“I can’t see anyone, but they’re coming this way,” I said with my head still outside.

“Jump,” he commanded.

I didn’t. I was worried about the height, I still had to get my body out, I was unconsciously refusing to get out alone. I wanted the man from Larache to reassure me that he’d be coming with me, that he’d lead me by the hand to wherever I had to go.

The men could be heard coming ever closer. The creak of the boots on the ground, the powerful voices assigning tasks. Quintero, to the women’s bathroom; Villarta, to the men’s. They certainly weren’t the slovenly recruits I’d come across on my arrival, but a patrol of fresh young men eager to fill the beginning of their day with activity.

“Jump and run!” the man repeated urgently, gripping my legs and pushing me upward.

I jumped, and fell, and the sack of pistols fell after me. I’d barely hit the ground before I heard the crash of doors being kicked open. The last sounds I heard were the rough shouts aimed at someone I never saw again.

“What are you doing in the women’s bathrooms, moro ? What were you throwing out the window? Villarta, quick, go outside and see if he’s thrown something out there.”

I began to run. Blindly, furiously. Sheltered by darkness, and hauling the sack with the guns; deaf, oblivious, not knowing if they were following me or wanting to think about what had become of the man from Larache faced with the soldier’s rifle. I lost a slipper, and one of the last pistols finally came detached from my body, but I didn’t stop to retrieve either of them, I just kept following the path of the tracks, half barefoot, not stopping, not thinking. I crossed open fields, orchards, fields of sugarcane, and small plantations. I tripped, got up, and kept running without calculating the distance my strides were covering. Not a single living thing greeted me, and nothing got in the way of the deranged rhythm of my feet, until—in the shadows—I was able to make out a sign covered in writing. Malalien Station, it said. That would be my destination.

The station was about a hundred yards from the sign, lit up by a single yellowish lamp. I stopped my wild running at the sign and looked around quickly in every direction to see if there was anyone to whom I could hand over the weapons. My heart was about to burst, and my mouth was dry and filled with grit as I struggled in vain to silence my labored breathing. No one came out to meet me, no one waited for the merchandise. Perhaps they’d arrive later, or perhaps never.

It took me less than a minute to make my decision. I put the sack down on the ground, flattened it as much as possible, and started to pile little rocks on it at a feverish pace, scraping at the ground, yanking up earth, stones, and brush till it was reasonably well covered. When I thought it no longer looked like a suspicious bulge, I left.

With barely enough time to recover my breath, I resumed my running in the direction of what I could make out as the lights of Tetouan. Now that I’d shed the cargo, I decided to shed the rest of my ballast. I opened up the haik without stopping and with some difficulty managed bit by bit to undo the remaining knots. The three pistols that were still tied to me fell out onto the road, first one, then another, and finally the last one. By the time I had almost reached the city, all my body had left was exhaustion, sadness, and pain. And a pouch full of banknotes hanging around my neck. Not a trace of the guns.

I got myself back up onto the curb of the Ceuta road and slowed my pace again. I’d lost the other slipper, too, so I disguised myself again in the figure of a wrapped-up barefoot Moorish woman wearily making her way up to La Luneta gate. I didn’t have to make an effort to appear tired, for my legs couldn’t manage anything more. My limbs were stiff, I was filthy, and I had blisters and bruises all over. An infinite weakness was invading my bones.

I entered the city as the shadows were beginning to lighten. The muezzin was calling the Muslims to first prayers from a nearby mosque, and the bugle of the Intendencia Barracks was playing reveille. The day’s news was appearing hot off the presses of La Gaceta de África, and shoeshine boys were beginning to circulate around La Luneta, yawning. Menahen the baker had already fired up his oven, and Don Leandro was piling up his store’s groceries with his apron tied firmly around his waist.

All these everyday scenes passed before my eyes as though they were alien, not demanding any of my attention. Although I knew Candelaria would be pleased when I handed over the money and would praise me for carrying out an impressive deed, deep down I didn’t feel the least bit of satisfaction, only the black gnawing of a deep anxiety.

While running frantically across the fields, while digging my nails in the earth to cover up the sack, while walking along the road, throughout my last actions of that long night, all I could think about were a thousand different sequences of events with just one protagonist: the man from Larache. In one of these, the soldiers discovered that he hadn’t thrown anything out the window, that it had all been a false alarm, that the man was no more than a confused, sleepy Arab, and so they’d let him go; the army was under express orders not to bother the local population unless there seemed to be something particularly disturbing afoot. In another very different scenario, no sooner had they opened the door to the toilets than the soldiers could see it was a Spaniard in disguise; they cornered him in the bathroom, pointing their rifles six inches from his face, and shouted for reinforcements. Once these arrived, they interrogated him, perhaps identifying and detaining him; perhaps they took him back to headquarters and he tried to escape; or perhaps they killed him, a shot in the back as he jumped the tracks. There were a host of other possible scenarios, but I knew I’d never be able to discover which of them turned out to be closest to the truth.

I went in through the front door, exhausted and filled with fears as morning dawned over the map of Morocco.

Ifound the door of the boardinghouse open and the guests awake, gathered around the dining room table where they daily hurled their insults and oaths. The sisters in their dressing gowns and curlers, sobbing, as the schoolmaster Don Anselmo tried to console them with quiet words I couldn’t hear. Paquito and the traveling salesman were retrieving the picture of the Last Supper from the floor, in order to return it to its place on the wall. The telegraph man, in his pajama bottoms and undershirt, smoking nervously in a corner. The fat mother, meanwhile, was trying to cool her linden tea by blowing on it lightly. Everything was topsy-turvy, with bits of broken glass and the curtains torn down from their rods.