María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“My family is me and my mother. We’re both dressmakers, simple dressmakers with no assets but our own hands. From the time I was born my father never had anything to do with us. He belongs to a different social class, a different world: he has money, companies, contacts, a wife he doesn’t love, and two sons he doesn’t get along with. That’s what he has. Or had, I don’t know—the first and last time I saw him was before the war and he already had a feeling they were about to kill him. And my betrothed, the attractive, enterprising fiancé who’s in Argentina managing companies and resolving financial matters, he doesn’t exist. It’s true that there was a man with whom I had a relationship and who may be in that country doing business, but he no longer has anything to do with me. He’s nothing more than an undesirable human being who broke my heart and robbed me of everything I had; I’d rather not talk about him. That’s my life, Rosalinda, and as you can see, it’s very different from yours.”

In reply to my confession she launched into a paragraph of English in which I was only able to catch the word “Morocco.”

“I didn’t understand any of that,” I said, confused.

She went back into Spanish.

“I said what the hell does it matter where you come from when you’re the best dressmaker in all Morocco? And as for your mother, well, as you Spaniards say, God may squeeze us, but He never suffocates us entirely… It’ll all work itself out, you’ll see.”

Early the next morning I returned to the police station to report to Don Claudio on the failure of my negotiations. Of the four policemen, only two were at their desks: the old one and the skinny one.

“The boss isn’t in yet,” they announced in unison.

“What time does he usually arrive?” I asked.

“Half past nine,” said one.

“Or half past ten,” said the other.

“Or tomorrow.”

“Or never.”

The two of them laughed, with their slobbering mouths, and I found myself without the strength to put up with that pair of creeps a moment longer.

“Please tell him that I came to see him. That I’ve been to Tangiers and I wasn’t able to arrange anything.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” said the one who wasn’t Cañete.

I made for the door without saying good-bye, and I was about to leave when I heard Cañete’s voice.

“Whenever you like I can prepare another pass for you, sweetheart.”

I didn’t stop. I just clenched my fists hard, and almost without realizing it I was revisited by a shadow of my former self. I turned my head a few inches, just enough for my reply to be heard loud and clear.

“Better save that for your whore of a mother.”

As luck would have it I ran into the commissioner on the street, far enough away from the police station that he didn’t invite me to return with him. It wasn’t hard to bump into anyone in Tetouan, where the street grid of the Spanish ensanche didn’t stretch too far and everyone was constantly coming and going. As usual he was wearing a light-colored linen suit and smelled recently shaved, ready to begin his day.

“You don’t look happy,” he said the moment he saw me. “I imagine things at the Continental didn’t go well.” He looked at his watch. “Come, let’s get a coffee.”

He led me to the Spanish Casino, a beautiful corner building with white stone balconies and big windows open to the main road. An Arab waiter was lowering the awnings with a squeaking iron rod as two or three others were putting out chairs and tables on the sidewalk in the shade. There was no one in the cool interior, just a large marble staircase in the entry and two big rooms, one on each side. He invited me into the one on the left.

“Good morning, Don Claudio.”

“Good morning, Abdul. Two coffees with milk, please,” he requested, seeking my agreement with his eyes. “Tell me,” he then said.

“It didn’t work. The manager is new, he wasn’t the same one from last year, but he knew all about the matter. He wasn’t prepared to negotiate at all. He just said that their terms had been more than generous and that if I didn’t make the payment by the designated date, he would turn me in.”

“I understand. And believe me, I am sorry. But I’m afraid I can’t help you now.”

“Don’t worry, you did enough by getting me a year.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Pay right away.”

“And the thing with your mother?”

I shrugged.

“Nothing. I’ll keep working and saving, though by the time I’ve gotten together as much as I need, it might be too late and they will have halted the evacuations. For now, as I said, I’ll clear my debt. I have the money, there’s no problem there. That’s just why I came to see you. I need another pass to cross the border and your permission to keep my passport for a couple of days.”

“Keep it, there’s no need for you to give it back to me again.” Then he brought his hand to the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a small leather case and a fountain pen. “And as for the safe-conduct, this will do,” he said as he removed a card and uncapped the pen. He scribbled a few words on the back and signed it. “Here.”

I put it away in my handbag without reading it.

“Are you planning to go on the Valenciana?”

“Yes, that’s what I’d planned.”

“Like you did yesterday?”

I held his inquiring gaze a few seconds before replying.

“I didn’t go on La Valenciana yesterday.”

“So how did you manage to get to Tangiers?”

I knew that he knew. And I also knew that he wanted me to tell him myself. But first we each took a sip of our coffee.

“A friend gave me a lift in her car.”

“Which friend?”

“Rosalinda Fox. An Englishwoman, a client of mine.”

Another sip of coffee.

“You do know who she is, don’t you?” he said then.

“Yes, I do.”

“So just be careful.”

“Why?”

“Just because. Be careful.”

“Tell me why,” I insisted.

“Because there are people who don’t like the fact that she’s here with the person she’s with.”

“I know.”

“What do you know?”

“That there are certain people who aren’t too pleased about her personal life.”

“Which people?”

I’d discovered already there was no one like the commissioner for squeezing, crushing, and extracting the very last drop of information.

“Certain people. Don’t ask me to tell you what you already know, Don Claudio. Don’t ask me to be disloyal to a customer just so you can hear from my mouth the names you already know.”

“Fine. Just confirm one thing for me.”

“What?”

“The names of these people—are they Spanish?”

“No.”

“Perfect,” he said simply. He finished his coffee and looked at his watch again. “I have to go, I have work to do.”

“So do I.”

“Indeed you do, I’d forgotten you were a working woman. You know you’ve earned an excellent reputation for yourself?”

“You hear about everything, so I’ll have to believe you.”

He smiled for the first time, and the smile took several years off him.

“I only know the things I need to know. But I’ll bet you hear about an awful lot of things, too: women always talk a lot to one another. And you deal with ladies who no doubt have interesting stories to tell.”

He was right, my clients did talk. They talked about their husbands, their businesses, their friendships, about the people whose houses they frequented, what various people did, thought, or said. But I didn’t answer yes or no to the commissioner; I simply got up, ignoring his observation. He called to the waiter and sketched a flourish in the air. Abdul nodded: no problem, the coffees would go on Don Claudio’s tab.