María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“I want you to know that everything you asked me for on the phone the other day has been arranged,” Rosalinda began as the waiter moved off with our order.

“Perfect,” replied the journalist.

“You’ll have your interview with the high commissioner, in private and as extensively as you find useful. You’ll also be given a temporary residence permit for the Spanish Protectorate area,” Rosalinda went on, “and invitations will be issued in your name to all the official engagements in the next few weeks. Some of these will be extremely significant.”

He raised the eyebrow on the intact side of his face in a question.

“We’re shortly expecting a visit from Ramón Serrano Suñer, Franco’s brother-in-law; I imagine you know who I’m talking about.”

“Yes, of course,” he confirmed.

“He’s coming to Morocco to commemorate the anniversary of the uprising; he’ll be staying three days. Various activities are being arranged to receive him—the general director of propaganda, Dionisio Ridruejo, arrived yesterday. He’s come over to coordinate the preparations with the secretariat of the High Commission. We expect you to attend any official events involving civilians.”

“Very many thanks—and do please extend my gratitude to the high commissioner.”

“It’ll be a pleasure having you here with us,” replied Rosalinda with the delicacy of a perfect hostess about to unsheathe a sword. “I hope you understand that we, too, have a number of conditions.”

“Of course,” said Logan after a sip of sherry.

“Any information you wish to send abroad will first have to be checked by the press office of the High Commission.”

“I have no problem with that.”

At that moment the waiters approached with our food, and I was overwhelmed by a great sense of relief. In spite of the elegance with which the two of them were managing the negotiations, I hadn’t been able to help feeling a little uncomfortable, as though I’d slipped into a party to which I hadn’t been invited. They were discussing things that had nothing to do with me, matters that might not have contained any great official secrets but that nonetheless were far from what I imagined a simple dressmaker ought to be hearing. Several times I repeated to myself that I wasn’t in the wrong place, that it was my place, too, because it had been my own mother’s evacuation that had prompted this dinner. All the same, it wasn’t easy convincing myself of that.

The arrival of the food interrupted the exchange of requirements and concessions for a few moments. Sole for the ladies, chicken with trimmings for the gentleman, the waiters announced. We made brief comments about the food, the freshness of the fish on the Mediterranean coast, how divine the vegetables from the Río Martín plain were. The moment the waiters had withdrawn, the conversation picked up exactly where it had left off just a few minutes earlier.

“Any other conditions?” asked the journalist before bringing the fork to his mouth.

“Yes, though I wouldn’t exactly call it a condition. Rather it’s something that will help you as much as us.”

“Then it will be easy for me to accept,” he said after swallowing his first mouthful.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Rosalinda agreed. “You see, Logan, we move in two quite different worlds, you and I, but we’re compatriots and we both know that on the whole the Nationalists tend to be sympathetic to the Germans and the Italians, and haven’t the least affection for the English.”

“Just so, absolutely,” he confirmed.

“Well then, that’s why I’d like you to pass yourself off as a friend of mine. Without disguising the fact that you’re a journalist, of course, but a journalist associated with me, and by extension the high commissioner. In this way we believe you’ll be welcomed with somewhat more moderate feelings of suspicion.”

“By whom?”

“By everyone: the Spanish and Muslim local authorities, the foreign consular corps, the press… I don’t have many fervent admirers in any of those groups, I have to be honest, but at least formally they do maintain a certain respect for my closeness to the high commissioner. If we can introduce you as a friend of mine, perhaps we can get them to extend that respect to you.”

“What does Colonel Beigbeder think of that?”

“He agrees entirely.”

“Then there’s nothing more for us to discuss. It doesn’t seem a bad idea to me, and as you say, it could be good for all of us. Any more conditions?”

“None on our side,” said Rosalinda, raising her glass as though in a little toast.

“Perfect. That’s all clear, then. Well, I think it’s time for me to bring you up to date with the matter you’ve asked me about.”

My stomach leapt: the time had come. The food and wine seemed to have brought Marcus Logan a little bit of new vigor; he appeared rather livelier. Although he had maintained a cool serenity during the negotiations, it was possible to make out a positive attitude in him, and an evident desire not to trouble Rosalinda and Beigbeder any more than necessary. I guessed that this might have something to do with his profession, but I had no way of knowing for sure—he was, after all, the first journalist I’d ever met in my life.

“I want you to know first of all that my contact is already on the alert and expects your mother’s evacuation when they mobilize the next operation from Madrid to the coast.”

I had to grip the edge of the table hard to stop myself from getting up and throwing my arms around him. I did restrain myself, however: the dining room in the Hotel Nacional was now full of people and our table, thanks to Rosalinda, was the main attraction that night. An impulsive reaction like giving that foreigner an ecstatic hug would have focused every gaze and whisper on us instantly. So I contained my enthusiasm and suggested my amazement with just a smile and a quiet thank-you.

“You’ll have to supply me with some information, then I’ll cable it to my agency in London. From there they’ll get in touch with Christopher Lance, who’s the person controlling the whole operation.”

“Who is he?” Rosalinda wanted to know.

“An English engineer; a veteran of the Great War who’s been settled in Madrid for a number of years. Until the uprising he was working for a Spanish firm with British shares, the Ginés Navarro & Sons civil engineering company, with its headquarters in the Paseo del Prado and branches in Valencia and Alicante. His projects with them have included building roads, bridges, a large dam in Soria, a hydroelectric plant near Grenada, and a mooring mast for zeppelins in Seville. When the war broke out, the Navarros disappeared, I don’t know whether by choice or by force. The workers set up a committee and took control of the company. Lance could have left then, but he didn’t.”

“Why not?” we asked in unison.

The journalist shrugged as he took a big swallow of wine.

“It’s good for the pain,” he said by way of excuse, raising his glass to us to indicate its medicinal effects. “To tell you the truth,” he went on, “I don’t know why Lance didn’t return to England, I’ve never been able to get a reason from him that would really justify what he did. Before the war began, the English who were living in Madrid—like almost all the foreigners—weren’t involved in Spanish politics and watched the situation with indifference, even with a certain amount of ironic detachment. They were aware, naturally, of the tensions that existed between the conservatives and the parties on the left, but saw them as just something typical of the country, a part of the national character. Bullfighting, siestas, garlic, oil, and fraternal hatred, all very picturesque, very Spanish. Until everything exploded—and then they saw how serious things were and started rushing to get out of Madrid as quickly as possible. With a few exceptions, such as Lance, who chose to send his wife home and remain in Spain.”