María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Before his death in that tragic accident, Sanjurjo had insisted that once I was settled in Tangiers I should go and look up his friend Juan Luis Beigbeder in Tetouan; he kept referring to our meeting at the Adlon in Berlin and saying how pleased he’d be to see me de nuevo. And, la verdad, the truth is, I also wanted to meet him again: he’d struck me as a fascinating man, so interesting, so cultured, so, so… such a real Spanish gentleman. And so once I’d been settled for a few months I decided the time had come for me to visit the capital of the Protectorate to call on him. By then, claro—obviously—things had changed: he was no longer in his administrative role in Indigenous Affairs, but occupying the senior post in the High Commission. And I turned up there in my Austin 7. Ay, Dios! How will I ever forget that day? I arrived in Tetouan and the first thing I did was to go see the English consul, Monck-Mason—you do know him, don’t you? I call him ‘Old Monkey’—he’s such a dreadfully boring man, pobrecito.”

I took advantage of the fact that at that moment I was bringing my wineglass to my mouth and made an imprecise gesture. I didn’t know this Monck-Mason, I’d only heard of him occasionally from my clients, but I didn’t acknowledge this in front of Rosalinda.

“When I told him I meant to visit Beigbeder, the consul was stunned. As you know, unlike the Germans and the Italians, His Majesty’s Government—our government—has almost no contact with the Spanish authorities from Franco’s Nationalist side because they still recognize the Republican regime in Madrid as the legitimate one, so Monck-Mason thought my visit to Juan Luis might turn out to be very useful for British interests. Anyway, before noon I headed for the High Commission in my car, accompanied only by Joker, my dog. At the entrance I showed the letter of introduction that Sanjurjo had given me before his death, and someone led me through to Juan Luis’s private secretary, along corridors filled with soldiers and spittoons—qué asco! Disgusting. Jiménez Muro, his secretary, took me straight into the office. Bearing in mind the war and his position, I imagined I would find the new high commissioner dressed in an imposing uniform covered with medals and decorations, but no, no, quite the contrary. Just as on that night in Berlin, Juan Luis was wearing a simple dark suit that made him look like anything but a rebel soldier. He was delighted by my visit: he turned out to be enchanting, we chatted, and he invited me to lunch, but I’d already accepted a prior invitation from Monck-Mason, so we arranged to meet the following day.”

Bit by bit the tables around us were filling up. Rosalinda would occasionally greet someone with a simple gesture or a quick smile, without showing much interest or interrupting her narrative about those first meetings with Beigbeder. I was also able to recognize the odd familiar face, people I’d met through Ramiro and whom I chose not to acknowledge. So the two of us remained focused on each other: she talking, me listening, both of us eating our fish, drinking cold wine, and ignoring the noise of the world around us.

“The following day I arrived at the High Commission expecting to find some sort of ceremonial meal as befit the setting: a big table, formality, surrounded by waiters… But Juan Luis had arranged for them to prepare us a simple table for two beside a window open to the garden. It was an inolvidable lunch, unforgettable, during which he spoke and spoke and spoke nonstop about Morocco, about his beloved Morocco, as he calls it. About its magic, its secrets, its fascinating culture. After lunch he decided to show me some of the area surrounding Tetouan—qué lindo! We went out in his official car—imagine!—followed by a procession of drivers and assistants, all so embarrassing! Pues, anyway, we ended up at the beach, sitting on the shore while the others waited on the road, can you believe it?”

She laughed, and I smiled. The situation she was describing really was peculiar: the most powerful figure in the Protectorate and a recently arrived foreigner who could have been his daughter, flirting openly by the seaside while the motorized retinue watched them shamelessly from a distance.

“And then he picked up two pebbles, one white, the other black. He put his hands behind his back, then brought them back out, fists closed. Choose, he said. Choose what, I asked. Choose a hand. If it has the black pebble in it, you will leave my life today and I will never see you again. If it’s the white one, that means destiny wants you to stay with me.”

“And it was the white one.”

“It was the white one, indeed,” she confirmed with a radiant smile. “A couple of days later he sent two cars to Tangiers: a Chrysler Royal to transport my things, and for me the Dodge roadster we traveled in today, a gift from the Hassan Bank of Tetouan that Juan Luis had decided would be for me. We haven’t been apart since, except for when his duties require him to travel. At the moment I’m installed with my son Johnny in the house on the Paseo de las Palmeras, in a grand mansion with a bathroom fit for a maharajah, a lavatory like a monarch’s throne, but whose walls are crumbling and which doesn’t even have running water. Juan Luis is living in the High Commission because that’s what his position requires; we didn’t even think about living together, but all the same he has decided that he still isn’t going to hide his relationship with me, even though it might sometimes put him in a rather compromising position.”

“Because he’s married…,” I offered.

She gave a shrug of unconcern and pushed a lock of hair back from her face.

“Oh no, no, that’s not what really matters—I’m married, too; that’s sólo nuestro asunto—it’s only our concern, completely private. The problem is of a more public nature—official, you might say; there are people who think that an Englishwoman could exert influence on him that would be undesirable, and they make their views known to us quite openly.”

“Who thinks that?” She had been speaking to me with such familiarity that without even thinking I felt entitled to ask for clarifications.

“The members of the Nazi colony in the Protectorate. Langenheim and Bernhardt especially. They feel the High Commissioner ought to be gloriously pro-German in every facet of his life: one hundred percent faithful to the Germans, the ones supporting his side in your civil war; the ones who right from the start agreed to make the airplanes and munitions available. In fact, Juan Luis was aware of the trip they took from Tetouan to Germany in those first days to have an audience with Hitler in Bayreuth, where—as he did every year—he was attending the Wagner festival. Pues, anyway, Hitler consulted Admiral Canaris, Canaris recommended that he agree to offer the help that was being requested, and on the same day the Führer ordered the dispatch to Spanish Morocco of everything they needed. If he hadn’t done that, the troops of the Spanish army in Africa wouldn’t have been able to cross the Strait, so the help from Germany really was crucial. Since then the relationship between the two armies has been very close, naturally. But the Nazis in Tetouan feel that my presence and the feelings Juan Luis has for me could lead him to adopt a position that is more pro-British and less faithful to the Germans.”

I recalled Félix’s comments about Frau Langenheim’s husband and his compatriot Bernhardt, his references to that early military help that they had secured in Germany. Apparently it had not only continued but was becoming increasingly well known in the Protectorate. I also remembered Rosalinda’s anxiety to create an impeccable impression during her first formal meeting with the German community on her lover’s arm. I thought I understood then what it was she was telling me, but I played down its importance and tried to reassure her.