María Dueñas - The Time in Between

The first move was to set about changing my style. The uncertainty of recent times, the miscarriage, and convalescence had reduced my body by at least six or seven kilos. The bitterness and the hospital had eliminated the roundness of my hips, some of the volume of my breasts, part of my thighs, and any curviness that had ever existed around my waist. I didn’t try too hard to recover any of that but began instead to feel comfortable with my new silhouette: one more step forward. Retrieving from my memory how some of the foreign women in Tangiers dressed, I decided to adapt my scant wardrobe with adjustments and repairs. I’d be less strict than my compatriots, more suggestive without being indecorous or indecent. Brighter, more colorful tones, lighter-weight fabrics. Blouse buttons a little more open at the neck and skirts just a little shorter. At the cracked mirror in Candelaria’s room, I reinvented myself, trying out and making my own all those glamorous ways women crossed their legs, which I’d observed every day at aperitif time on the terraces, the elegant way they’d make their way with such poise along the broad sidewalks of the Boulevard Pasteur, and the grace with which their recently manicured fingers would lift up a French fashion magazine, a gin fizz, or a Turkish cigarette in an ivory holder.

For the first time in more than three months I paid attention to how I looked, and I discovered that I needed to quickly revamp myself. A neighbor plucked my eyebrows, another gave me a manicure. I went back to using makeup after months with my face bare: I chose pencils to outline my lips, carmine to fill them out, colors for my eyelids, rouge for my cheeks, liner and mascara for my eyes. One day I had Jamila cut my hair with the sewing scissors, following exactly a photo in the old issue of Vogue I’d brought in my suitcase. The thick dark mop that had come halfway down my back fell in worn locks onto the kitchen floor, like the wings of dead crows, till I was left with a smooth straight crop along the line of my jaw, with a part on one side and a tendency to fall untamed over my right eye. To hell with that hot, thick, long hair that had so fascinated Ramiro. I couldn’t have said whether the new haircut suited me or not, but it made me feel fresher, freer. Renewed, taken away forever from those afternoons under the fan blades in our room at the Hotel Continental, from those endless hours with no shelter but his body encircling mine and the great thick mane spread like a shawl over the sheets.

Candelaria’s plans were realized only a few days later. First she identified three properties in the ensanche that were available for immediate rental. She explained the details of each one to me, we weighed up together what was good and bad about each, and finally we made our decision.

The first place Candelaria had told me about seemed to be the perfect site: large and modern, never before lived in, close to the post office and the Teatro Español. “It’s even got a movable shower just like a telephone, honey, except that instead of hearing the voice of the person who’s talking to you there’s a gush of water coming out that you can point wherever you want,” explained the Matutera, astounded by the marvel. We ruled it out, however, because it adjoined a still-empty plot littered with stray cats and junk. The ensanche was growing, but there were still places, here and there, that hadn’t yet been developed. We thought that the setting might perhaps not offer quite the right image to the sophisticated customers we aimed to attract, so the workshop with the telephone shower was ruled out.

The second proposal was positioned on Tetouan’s main road, in those days called the Calle República, in a beautiful house with turrets on its corners and close to Plaza de Muley el Mehdi, which would soon become known as Primo de Rivera. This site also seemed at first glance to have everything we needed: it was spacious, with an imposing presence, and it was not located next to a vacant lot, but rather on a corner that opened onto two central, well-used arteries. The building next door, however, was home to one of the finest dressmakers in the city, a seamstress of a certain age with a solid reputation. We weighed up the situation and decided to rule out that place, too: better not to upset the competition.

So we went for the third option. The property that finally would end up being converted into my workplace and my home was a large apartment on the Calle Sidi Mandri, in a building with a tiled façade close to the Casino Español, Benarroch passage, and the Hotel Nacional; not far from the Plaza de España, the High Commission, and the caliph’s palace with its imposing sentries guarding the entrance and an exotic array of sumptuous turbans and cloaks swaying in the air.

Candelaria closed the deal with Jacob Benchimol, a Jew who from that moment, and with considerable discretion, became my landlord in exchange for the punctual sum of three hundred and seventy-five pesetas a month. Three days later, I, the new Sira Quiroga, falsely metamorphosed into someone I perhaps wasn’t but might end up being one day, took possession of the place and threw open the doors to a new phase in my life.

“On you go, on your own,” said Candelaria, handing me the key. “It’s best that we’re not seen going around together too much from now on. I’ll be over in just a little bit.”

I made my way through the comings and goings of La Luneta, the subject of constant male glances. I didn’t remember ever having received even a quarter as many in the months gone past, when my image was that of an insecure young woman with her hair drawn back into an unattractive bun, walking lethargically and dragging along the clothing and injuries of a past she was trying to forget. Now I moved with feigned confidence, forcing myself to emanate an air of arrogance and savoir faire that no one would have guessed at only a week earlier.

Even though I tried to impose a leisurely rhythm on my steps, it didn’t take me more than ten minutes to reach my destination. I’d never noticed the building before, even though it was only a dozen paces from the main road in the Spanish quarter. I was pleased at first sight to note that it combined all the features I’d considered desirable: an excellent location and an imposing front door, a certain air of Arab exoticism from the tiles of the façade, a certain air of European sobriety in the arrangement of the interior. The shared hallways were elegant and well proportioned; the staircase, while not being too broad, had a handsomely forged handrail that curved gracefully as it ascended.

The main door was open, as they all were in those days. I assumed there was a caretaker, though there was none to be seen. I began to climb the stairs nervously, almost tiptoeing, trying to muffle the sound of my tread. While outside I’d increased in confidence and poise, deep down I was still intimidated and preferred to go unnoticed as much as possible. I arrived at the main floor without passing anyone and found myself on a landing with two identical doors. Left and right, both closed. The first belonged to the neighbors I had not yet met. The second was mine. I took the key out of my pocket, inserted it into the lock with nervous fingers, then turned it. I pushed shyly and for several seconds didn’t dare to go in; I just cast my eyes over what the gap in the door allowed me to see. A large reception room with bare walls and a floor of geometric tiles in white and maroon. The start of a corridor at the back. On the right, a large living room.

Over the years there have been many times when my destiny has delivered me unexpected moments, unforeseen twists and turns that I’ve had to handle on the fly as they appeared. Occasionally I was ready for them; very often I wasn’t. Never, however, was I so aware of entering a new stage as I was that afternoon in October when I finally dared to cross the threshold and my steps sounded hollowly in the unfurnished apartment. Behind me was a complicated past, and in front of me, like an omen, I could see a space opening out, a great empty space that time would take care of filling up. But with what? With things, and affections. With moments, sensations, and people: with life.