María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“I know they leave early in the morning. Lance is already familiar with all the checkpoints, and there are more than thirty; sometimes it takes them more than twelve hours to make the journey. He has, however, become something of a specialist in the psychology of the militiamen: he gets out of the car, talks to them, calls them his comrades, shows them his impressive safe-conduct, offers them tobacco, shares a joke, and takes his leave with a “Long Live Russia!” or a “Death to the Fascists!”: anything that’ll allow him to get back on his way. The only thing he never does is bribe them: he set himself that principle and as far as I know he’s always kept to it. He’s also extremely scrupulous in following the Republic’s laws—he never disobeys them. And naturally at all times he avoids provoking any incidents that might harm our embassy. Even though he isn’t a diplomat except on an honorary basis, he nonetheless follows the diplomatic code of ethics extremely rigorously.”

No sooner had he finished his answer than I was ready to fire off the next question, evidence that I’d been an apt pupil in acquiring Commissioner Vázquez’s interrogation techniques.

“Which port do they take the refugees to?”

“To Valencia, to Alicante, to Denia—it depends. He studies the situation, designs a plan for the route, and finally, one way or other, arranges to dispatch his cargo.”

“But have these people got papers? Permits? Safe-conducts?”

“To get themselves around Spain, yes, usually. To go abroad, probably not. That’s why the operation to get them embarked is usually the most complicated part: Lance needs to outmaneuver checkpoints, get onto the docks and pass unnoticed among sentries, negotiate with the ships’ officers, slip the refugees on board, and hide them in case there’s a search. All this has to be done carefully, without arousing any suspicion. It’s an extremely delicate business; he’s risking ending up in prison. But for now he’s always managed to make it work.”

We finished our dinner. Logan had struggled to use his cutlery; his left arm wasn’t working a hundred percent. Even so, he’d been thorough in his dealings with the chicken, the large dishes of custard, and several glasses of wine. I, meanwhile, absorbed in listening to him, had barely tasted the sole and hadn’t ordered any dessert.

“Do you want a coffee?” he asked.

“Yes—thank you.”

The truth was that I never drank coffee after dinner except when I needed to stay up working late. But that night I had two good reasons to accept his offer: to prolong the conversation as much as possible, and to stay sharp so as not to miss out on the slightest detail.

“Tell me about Madrid,” I asked him then. My voice came out muted; perhaps I was already guessing that I wasn’t going to like what I heard.

He looked at me hard before answering.

“You don’t know anything about the situation there, do you?”

I dropped my gaze to the tablecloth and shook my head. Learning the details of my mother’s forthcoming evacuation had relaxed me: I was no longer nervous. In spite of his crushed body, Marcus Logan had managed to calm me with his solid, reassuring presence. The relaxation didn’t bring happiness with it, however, but a heavy sadness about everything I’d heard. For my mother, for Madrid, for my country. Immediately I felt a terrible weakness and tears beginning to spring to my eyes.

“The city’s in a very bad way, and there are shortages of basic goods. The situation isn’t good, but everyone finds ways to get through it as best they can,” he said, summing up his reply with a handful of vague platitudes. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?” he added.

“Ask me anything you want,” I replied, my gaze still set on the table. My mother’s future was in his hands—how could I refuse?

“Look, the arrangements have been made, and I can assure you that they’re going to take care of your mother as they’ve promised me they would; you needn’t worry on that score.” He was talking more quietly, more closely. “But to make it work, however, I’ve had to—let’s say—invent a scenario, and I’m not sure how much it corresponds to reality. I’ve had to say that she’s in a high-risk situation and needs evacuating urgently; I didn’t need to give any more details than that. But I’d like to know how much I was correct and how much I was lying. So if you wouldn’t mind, would you tell me what your mother’s situation really is? Do you think she’s in real danger in Madrid?”

A waiter arrived with the coffees and we stirred in our sugar, the spoons clinking against the porcelain in a measured rhythm. After a few seconds, I raised my gaze and looked right at him.

“You want to know the truth? The truth is that I don’t think her life is in danger, but I’m the only thing my mother has in the world, and she’s the only thing I have. We’ve always lived alone, the two of us together struggling to get by: we’re just two working women. But there was a day when I made a mistake, and I let her down. And now the only thing I want is to get her back. You told me before that your friend Lance doesn’t do things for political motivations, that he’s only moved by humanitarian concerns. You decide whether or not reuniting a mother without means with her only daughter is a humanitarian reason—I don’t know.”

I couldn’t say any more, I knew my tears were about to start pouring out.

“I have to go, tomorrow I’ve got to be up early, I have a lot of work to do, thank you for the dinner, for everything…”

The phrases tumbled out, my voice hoarse, as I stood and picked up my handbag. I tried not to look up, so as not to let him see the damp streaks running down my cheeks.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, getting up, hiding the pain.

“There’s no need, thank you: I live very close, just around the corner.”

I turned and began to walk toward the exit. I’d barely gone a few steps when I felt his hand brush against my elbow.

“Lucky that you live nearby, that way I won’t have to walk so much. Let’s go.”

With a gesture he asked the maître d’ to charge the bill to his room, and we left. He didn’t speak to me or try to calm me; he didn’t say a word about what he’d just heard. He simply remained beside me in silence and let me recover my composure. The moment we’d set foot on the street, he stopped dead. Leaning on his walking stick, he looked up at the starry sky and breathed in longingly.

“Morocco smells good.”

“There’s the mountain nearby, and the sea, too,” I replied, already somewhat calmer. “I suppose that must be why.”

We walked slowly; he asked me how long I’d been in the Protectorate, what life was like in such a place.

“We’ll meet again, I’ll keep you informed whenever I get any new information,” he said when I indicated that we’d arrived at my door. “And rest assured, you can count on the fact that they’ll be doing whatever they can to help her.”

“Thank you very much—truly—and sorry about the way I reacted. Sometimes I find it hard to keep myself in check. These aren’t easy times,” I whispered a bit shyly.

He tried to smile, but only half succeeded.

“I understand perfectly, don’t worry.”

This time there were no tears; the worst of it had passed. We just held each other’s gaze, said good night, and I began my walk up the stairs thinking how little this Marcus Logan resembled the threatening opportunist Rosalinda and I had been expecting.

Beigbeder and Rosalinda were delighted with the following day’s interview. She told me later that everything had taken place in a relaxed atmosphere, the two men sitting on one of the terraces of the old villa on Paseo de las Palmeras, drinking brandy and soda opposite the Río Martín plain and the slopes of the imposing Ghorgiz, where the Rif Mountains began. At the start, the three of them were all there together: the critical eye of the Englishwoman needed to gauge her compatriot’s level of trustworthiness before leaving him alone with her beloved Juan Luis. Bedouie, the Arab cook, prepared a lamb tajine for them, which was served accompanied by a grand cru burgundy. After the desserts and coffee, Rosalinda retired and the two men settled into wicker chairs to smoke cigars as they immersed themselves in their conversation.