María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“He will never love you as much as I do.”

And then he stood up, took up the typewriter, and began to walk with it toward the void. I watched his back moving away, walking beneath the murky light of the street lamps, perhaps suppressing an urge to dash the machine against the ground.

I kept my eyes fixed on him, watched as he left the square until his body faded into the distance, until I could no longer make him out in the autumn evening. And I would have liked to remain there crying at his absence, regretting that farewell that was so brief and so sad, blaming myself for having put an end to our hopeful plan for the future. But I couldn’t. I didn’t shed a single tear, didn’t rain down a single reproach upon myself. Just a minute after his presence had faded, I, too, got up from the bench and walked away. I left behind my neighborhood, my people, my little world forever. My whole past remained there as I set out on a new stage of my life, a life that seemed luminous and whose immediate present could imagine no greater glory than that of Ramiro’s two arms giving me shelter.

With him I learned a new kind of life. I learned to be independent of my mother, to live with a man, and to keep a maid. To try to please him every moment and to have no other aim but to make him happy. And I also got to know another Madrid: the Madrid of sophisticated fashionable places; of shows, restaurants, and nightlife. Cocktails at Negresco, the Granja del Henar, Bakanik. Film premieres at the Real Cinema with organ accompaniment, Mary Pickford on the screen, Ramiro putting bonbons in my mouth, and me lightly grazing the tips of his fingers with my lips, almost melting with love. Carmen Amaya at the Teatro Fontalba, Raquel Meller at the Maravillas. Flamenco at Villa Rosa, the Palacio del Hielo cabaret. A lively, effervescent Madrid, through which Ramiro and I flitted as though there were no yesterday and no tomorrow. As though we had to consume the whole world every instant in case the future were never to arrive.

What was it about Ramiro, what did he do to me that turned my life upside down in just a couple of weeks? Even today, so many years later, I can put together a catalog with my eyes closed of everything about him that seduced me, and I’m convinced that if I’d been born a hundred times, a hundred times over I’d have fallen in love with him as I did then. Ramiro Arribas, irresistible, worldly, handsome as the devil. With his brown hair combed back, his stunning bearing of pure manliness, radiating optimism and confidence twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Witty and sensual, indifferent to the political asperity of the times, as though he were not quite of this world. A friend to everyone without taking anyone seriously, the constructor of grand plans, always knowing just the right word, just the right gesture for each moment. Now the manager of an Italian typewriter company, yesterday a German car rep, the day before yesterday what difference did it make, and next month God alone knew.

What did Ramiro see in me, why did he become infatuated with a humble dressmaker about to marry an unambitious civil servant? True love for the first time in his life, he swore to me a thousand times. There had been other women before, of course. How many, I asked? Some, but none like you. And then he would kiss me and I thought I was dancing on the edge of a faint. Nor would it be hard for me today to assemble another list of his impressions of me: I remember them all. The explosive blend of an almost childish naïveté with the bearing of a goddess, he said. A diamond in the rough, he said. Sometimes he treated me like a little girl and then the ten years that separated us seemed centuries. He would anticipate my whims, fill my capacity for surprise with the most unexpectedly inspired ideas. He’d buy me stockings at the Lyon silk shop, creams and perfumes, ice creams in exotic flavors; custard apple, mango, and coconut. He would instruct me—teaching me to use my cutlery properly, to drive his Morris, to decipher restaurant menus, how to inhale when smoking. He would talk to me about figures from the past and artists he’d once met; he’d recollect old friends and anticipate the splendid opportunities that might be awaiting us in any remote corner of the globe. He’d draw maps of the world, and he made me grow. Sometimes, however, that little girl disappeared and I’d rise up as a woman fully formed, and he wasn’t at all bothered by my lack of knowledge and experience: he desired me, he revered me just as I was and clung to me as though my body were the only mooring in the turbulent oscillations of his existence.

I installed myself with him from the start in his masculine apartment beside the Plaza de las Salesas. I brought hardly anything with me, as though my life were beginning anew, as though I were someone else and had been born again. My reckless heart and a few clothes were the only possessions I brought to his home. From time to time I’d go back and visit my mother; in those days she used to take on sewing work at home, but there was so little of it that she had barely enough to survive. She didn’t approve of Ramiro, disliking the way he behaved with me. She accused him of having dragged me away impulsively, of having used his age and position to trick me, to force me to give up all my existing bonds. She didn’t like that I was living with him unmarried, that I’d left Ignacio, and that I was no longer the way I’d always been. However hard I tried, I was never able to convince her that Ramiro hadn’t been the one pressuring me to act like this, that it was simply unbounded love that had brought me to him. Our discussions got harsher every day: we exchanged terrible reproaches and clawed at each other’s entrails. To each challenge from her I would reply with some bit of insolence, to each reproach with an even fiercer contempt. It was unusual for a meeting not to end with tears, shouts, and slamming doors, and so my visits became increasingly short and infrequent. And my mother and I more distant every day.

Until one day there was an approach on her part. She only did it in the role of an intermediary, certainly, but that gesture of hers—as we might have predicted—brought about a new turn in our separate paths. She showed up at Ramiro’s house in the middle of the morning. He was already out and I was still asleep. We had been out the previous night, first seeing Margarita Xirgu at the Teatro de la Comedia, then afterward going out to Le Cock bar. It must have been nearly four in the morning when we went to bed, and I was so exhausted that I didn’t even have the strength to wipe off the makeup that I’d recently begun using. Half asleep I heard Ramiro leaving at around ten; half asleep I heard the arrival of Prudencia, the maid who kept our domestic disarray in some order. Half asleep I heard her go out for the milk and bread and half asleep I heard a short while later that there was someone at the door. I thought that Prudencia had come back, having left her key behind, which she had done before. I got up, flustered, and in a foul mood approached the insistent knocking at the door, shouting, I’m coming! I didn’t even bother to put anything on: Prudencia’s stupidity didn’t deserve the effort. Sleepily I opened the door to find not Prudencia, but my mother. I didn’t know what to say. Nor did she. She just looked me up and down, her attention caught successively by my disheveled hair, the black mascara tracks running under my eyes, the remains of carmine around my mouth, and the indecent nightdress that allowed more naked flesh to be seen than her sense of decency would allow. I couldn’t bear her gaze, I couldn’t face her. Perhaps because I was still too bewildered by my late night, perhaps because the serene severity of her attitude disconcerted me.