María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“I need someone to do some drawings for me.”

“Might I ask what they’re of?”

His tone wasn’t rude, merely curious. Curious, direct, and slightly affected. He seemed much more confident on his own than in the company of his mother.

“I’ve got some photos from years ago and I want someone to draw me some sketches based on them. As I’m sure you know, I’m a dressmaker. They’re for an outfit I need to sew for a client; I have to show it to her first to get her approval.”

“Have you got the photographs with you?”

I gave a quick nod.

“Do you want to show them to me? I might be able to help.”

I looked around me. There weren’t too many people, but enough to make me uncomfortable about showing the clippings publicly. I didn’t have to tell him this—he guessed for himself.

“Shall we go outside?”

Once we were out on the street, I took the old pages out of my handbag. Without saying a word, I held them out to him and he looked at them carefully.

“Schiaparelli, the muse of the surrealists—how interesting. I do adore surrealism, don’t you?”

I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was asking me, and at the same time I was in a terrible rush to solve my problem, so I drew the thread of the conversation back, ignoring his question.

“Do you know who would be able to do them for me?”

He looked at me through his thick glasses and smiled without parting his lips.

“Would you mind if I helped?”

That very night he brought me the sketches; I hadn’t expected him to get them done so soon. I was already set for the end of the day, having put on my nightdress and a broad velvet housecoat that I’d sewn for myself to kill time in the empty days I had spent waiting for customers. I’d just had dinner from a tray in the living room, and it still held the leftovers of my frugal sustenance: a bunch of grapes, a piece of cheese, a glass of milk, some crackers. Everything was silent and switched off, except for a standing lamp still on in a corner. I was surprised to hear someone at the door at nearly eleven o’clock. I quickly approached the peephole, curious and alarmed in equal measure. When I saw who it was, I drew the bolt and opened the door.

“Good evening, my dear. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Don’t worry, I was still up.”

“I’ve got a few little things for you,” he said, allowing me to glimpse several pieces of cardboard that he had been hiding behind his back.

He didn’t hold them out to me but kept them half concealed as he remained impassive on the threshold, with his work out of my sight and an apparently inoffensive smile on his face. I hesitated a few moments, not wanting to invite him in at that late hour.

I eventually got the message. He didn’t mean to show me a single bit until I had let him through.

“Please, do come in,” I agreed at last.

“Thank you, thank you,” he whispered gently, not hiding his satisfaction at having gotten what he wanted. He was dressed in a shirt and a pair of trousers, but with a felt dressing gown over them. And with his little glasses. And those slightly affected gestures of his.

He studied the entrance hall critically, then went into the living room without waiting for me to invite him all the way in.

“I like your home very much indeed. It’s very airy, very chic.”

“Thank you, I’m still settling in. Would you be kind enough to show me what it is you’ve brought?”

My neighbor didn’t need me to say any more to know that if I’d allowed him in at that time of night, it wasn’t to hear his comments on decorative matters.

“Here’s your little assignment,” he said, at last showing me what he had kept hidden.

Three boards sketched in pencil and pastels depicted three angles and poses of a model with such perfect proportions that she no longer appeared realistic, dressed in a unique skirt that wasn’t really a skirt. My approval must have shown instantly on my face.

“I take it you think they’re good?” he said with a touch of undisguised pride.

“I think they’re extremely good.”

“You’ll keep them, then?”

“Of course. You’ve gotten me out of a really difficult situation. Please tell me how much I owe you.”

“Your thanks, no more than that; it’s a welcome present. Mama says we have to be nice to our neighbors, even though she only likes you so-so. I think you seem too confident to her, and just a little bit frivolous,” he observed ironically.

I smiled, and the tiniest current of sympathy seemed to join us momentarily; just a whiff that disappeared as quickly as it had come when we heard his progenitor yelling her son’s name through the half-open door.

“Féééééé-lix!” She stretched out the e like the elastic on a slingshot, and once she’d extended it as far as she could, she fired off the second syllable hard. “Féééééé-lix!” she repeated. He rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated gesture of despair.

“Can’t live without me, poor thing. I’m off.”

His mother’s harsh voice called for him again, a third time with that infinite initial vowel.

“Ask me again whenever you like; I’d be delighted to do more drawings for you, I’m crazy about anything from Paris. Well, I’m going back to the dungeon now. Good night, my dear.”

I closed the door and spent a long while examining the drawings. They really were delightful; I couldn’t have imagined a better outcome. That night I went to bed with a pleasant feeling.

The next day I was up early; I was expecting my client at eleven for the first fittings, but I wanted to finalize every detail before she arrived. Jamila was not yet back from the market, but she was due at any moment. At twenty to eleven the doorbell rang, and I thought perhaps the German lady had come early. I was again wearing the navy blue outfit: I’d decided to use it as though it were a work uniform, elegance of the most pure and simple kind. That way I’d make the most of my professional attire and conceal the fact that I hardly had any autumn clothes in my wardrobe. My hair was already done, my makeup perfect, and my old silver scissors were hanging around my neck. Just one little touch was missing: the invisible disposition of a woman of the world. I assumed the attitude quickly and opened the door confidently. And then the world crumbled at my feet.

“Good morning, miss,” said the visitor, taking off his hat. “May I enter?”

I swallowed.

“Good morning, Commissioner. Of course—please, do come in.”

I led him to the living room and offered him a seat. He approached a chair unhurriedly, distractedly looking about the room as he walked through. His eyes moved slowly over the elaborate plaster moldings on the ceiling, the damask curtains, the large mahogany table covered in foreign magazines. And the old chandelier, beautiful and striking, which Candelaria had gotten hold of God knows where or for how much, and through what dark machinations. I felt my pulse speeding up and my stomach turning over.

At last he sat down and I sat opposite him, in silence, waiting to hear what he had to say, trying to hide my anxiety at his unexpected presence.

“Well, I see that things are progressing full steam ahead.”

“I’m doing the best I can. I’ve started working; I was just waiting for a client.”

“And what is the work you’re doing exactly?” he asked. He knew the answer all too well, but for some reason he wanted me to tell him.

I tried to speak in a neutral tone of voice. I didn’t want him to see me afraid and guilty looking, but on the other hand I didn’t mean to come across to him as an overly confident, bold woman either, which he more than anyone knew I wasn’t.