María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Consider it done. What else?”

“For the fitting room, a triple mirror. And another couple of armchairs. And an upholstered bench for putting the clothes down on.”

“And?”

“Material. Some swatches of the best fabrics to use as samples, not whole pieces until we’ve got things under way.”

“They have the best ones at La Caraqueña; we’re having nothing to do with the burrakía that the Moors sell next to the market, which are far less elegant. I’ll also go see what the Indians on La Luneta can get me, as they’re very smart and always keep something special out back. And they’ve also got good contacts with the French neighborhood, so let’s see if they might not be able to get some interesting little things out of there. Keep talking.”

“A sewing machine, a Singer from America if possible. Even though almost all the work is done by hand, it’s useful to have one. And also a good iron and ironing board. And a pair of mannequins. As for the rest, it’s best if I sort those out quickly myself, just tell me where I’ll find the best shop.”

And on and on we went, organizing everything. First I would place my order and then Candelaria would scheme tirelessly to get us what we needed. Sometimes things would appear disguised and at strange times, covered in blankets and carried by men with sallow faces. Sometimes the deliveries would happen in daylight, witnessed by whoever was out on the streets. Furniture arrived, and painters, and electricians; I received parcels, tools, and an endless variety of goods. Wrapped in my new image as a woman of the world radiating glamour and ease, I supervised the whole process from beginning to end with an expression of resolve, my eyelashes thick with mascara, my new hairstyle perpetually groomed, my feet shod in stylish high heels. I dealt with any contingencies that presented themselves and allowed myself to come to be known among the neighbors, who would greet me discreetly when they passed me at the front door or on the stairs. Downstairs on the ground floor there was a milliner’s and a tobacconist’s; on the main floor, opposite me, lived an older lady in mourning and a chubby young man with glasses whom I took to be her son. Upstairs lived families with crowds of children who tried to nose out whatever they could about their newest neighbor.

Everything was ready in a few days; all we still needed were customers. I remember as though it were yesterday the first night I slept there, alone and terrified. I barely managed a moment’s sleep. In the small hours I heard the last domestic shufflings in the nearby apartments: some child crying, a radio turned on, the mother and son opposite arguing noisily, the sound of crockery and water coming out of the tap as someone finished washing the last dishes from a late dinner. As the early hours of the morning progressed, the external sounds fell silent and other ones, imaginary ones, took their place: it seemed that the furniture creaked too much, that there were footsteps on the floor tiles in the hallway, that shadows were spying on me from the newly painted walls. Before sensing even the first ray of sunlight, I was already out of bed, unable to contain my anxiety any longer. I made my way to the living room, opened the shutters, and leaned out to wait for morning to come. The minaret of a mosque sounded the call to fajr, the first prayers of the day. There still wasn’t anyone on the streets, and the mountains of the Ghorgiz, barely perceptible in the gloom, began to appear, majestic, with the arrival of the first light. Bit by bit, sluggishly, the city was being set in motion. The Moorish servant girls began to arrive, wrapped in their haiks and shawls. Some men went out to work headed in the opposite direction, and a number of black-veiled women, in twos and threes, made their way hurriedly to an early Mass. I didn’t wait to see the children heading out to school, or the shops and offices opening up for the day, or the maids going out for churros , or the mothers heading for the market to choose the things that the young Moorish delivery boys would then carry back to their houses in the big baskets they bore on their backs. Before all that had begun, I’d gone back inside to the living room and sat down on my brand-new maroon-colored taffeta sofa. What for? To wait for my luck to change at last.

Jamila arrived early. We smiled nervously; it was the first day for both of us. Candelaria had given up the girl’s services to me, and I appreciated the gesture: we’d become very fond of each other, and she’d be a good ally for me, a younger sister. “It’ll take me two minutes to find myself a Moorish maid,” Candelaria had said. “You take Jamila, she’s a good girl, you’ll see how much help she’ll be to you.” And so sweet Jamila came with me, delighted to be getting out of the heavy burden of boardinghouse chores and beginning a new line of work with her Siñorita that would allow her youth to be somewhat less wearisome.

Yes, Jamila arrived, but no one else followed. Not on that first day, or the following one, or the next. Those three mornings I opened my eyes before dawn had broken and I got myself ready with the same scrupulous care. My clothes and my hair impeccable, the house spotless, the glamorous magazines with their elegant smiling women on the covers, the tools in order in the workshop: everything perfect, waiting for someone to require my services. No one, however, seemed to have any intention of doing so.

Sometimes I’d hear noises, footsteps, voices on the stairs. Then I’d run on tiptoes to the door and look anxiously through the peephole, but the sounds never turned out to be for me. My eye fixed to the round opening, I saw figures go past, burdened servant girls, delivery boys, the porter in her apron, the postman coughing, and an endless procession of other figures. But nobody came who was ready to order her wardrobe from my workshop.

I hesitated between telling Candelaria and continuing to wait patiently. I hesitated another day, two days, three, till I had almost lost count. Finally I made my decision: I’d go to La Luneta and ask her to work her contacts, to resort to anything necessary to let potential clients know that the business was now up and running. Unless she could do that, our joint venture would die before it had even begun. But I didn’t get the chance to call on the Matutera to act, because that very morning, at last, the doorbell rang.

“ Guten Morgen. My name is Frau Heinz, I am new in Tetouan and I need some clothes.”

I received her dressed in a suit that I’d sewn for myself only a few days earlier. A navy blue tube skirt, narrow like a pencil skirt, with a fitted jacket but no blouse underneath, and with the top button placed just at the point beyond which the décolletage would cease to be decent. And yet tremendously elegant, all the same. As a finishing touch, around my neck hung a long silver chain that ended in an old pair of scissors of the same metal; they were no use for cutting because of their age, but I had found them in an antiquarian’s bazaar while I was looking for a lamp and decided immediately that I wanted to make them a part of my new image.

The new arrival had barely looked me in the eye as she introduced herself—her gaze seemed more concerned with gauging the distinction of the establishment in order to be sure that it was of the level she required. It turned out that I found it easy to attend to her—I just had to pretend that I wasn’t myself but Doña Manuela reincarnated in the person of an attractive and competent foreigner. We sat down in the living room, each of us in one armchair, her with a determined pose that was a little manly, and me with my very best leg-crossing that I’d practiced a thousand times. With her broken Spanish she told me what she wanted. Two day suits, two outfits for going out at night. And an outfit for playing tennis.