María Dueñas - The Time in Between

He gave an evil smile.

“Oh, nothing of the sort, my dear. They say General Franco—El Caudillo, as they call him—didn’t lift a finger for them. He could have offered his brother-in-law in a trade, something that happened on both sides of the conflict, but he never did. And when they did manage to get to Salamanca, apparently the reception they received wasn’t terribly enthusiastic. Franco and his family were settled in the Episcopal Palace and they say that all of the Serrano Polo troops were lodged in an attic on rickety cots while Franco’s little girl had an enormous bedroom with a bathroom to herself. The truth is, apart from all these slanders that are being passed from mouth to mouth at the moment, I haven’t been able to learn much about Serrano Suñer’s private life; I’m sorry, love. What I do know is that in Madrid two of his brothers were killed who had nothing to do with his own political causes. This seems to have traumatized him and motivated him to get actively involved in the construction of what they’re calling the New Spain. And the thing is now he’s managed to transform himself into the general’s right-hand man. Which is why they’ve taken to calling him the In-law-ísimo—a joke on his brother, the Generalísimo. They also say that much of his current power is thanks to the influence of the powerful Doña Carmen, who was already fed up that her fly-by-night other brother-in-law, Nicolás Franco, had so much influence on her husband. So the moment Serrano appeared, she made herself absolutely clear: ‘From now on, Paco, more Ramón and less Nicolás.’ ”

His impression of the voice of Franco’s wife made us both laugh.

“Serrano’s a really smart guy, they say,” Félix went on. “Very wise, much more experienced than Franco on political, intellectual, and human matters. Besides that, he’s hugely ambitious and works tirelessly; they say he spends his days trying to construct a judicial basis for legitimizing the Nationalist faction and his relative’s ultimate power. That is to say, he’s working to provide a civil institutional order for a structure that is purely military, you see?”

“In case they win the war,” I said.

“In case they win the war, who knows?”

“And what do people think of Serrano? Do they like him?”

“So-so. The old arrastrasables —the high-ranking officers, that is—don’t like him all that much. They consider him an inconvenient intruder; they speak different languages, they don’t understand each other. They’d be happiest with an entirely military state, but Serrano, who’s smarter than all of them, is trying to make them see that this would be a crazy idea, that they’d never be able to get legitimacy or international recognition that way. And Franco, even though he hasn’t a clue about politics, does trust him in this. So even if they don’t like it, the others just have to swallow it. Nor has he quite managed to persuade all the long-standing Falangists. It seems he used to be close friends with José Antonio Primo de Rivera, with whom he studied at the university, but he never belonged to the Falange before the war. Now he does: he had no choice, he’s currently Falangist to the bone, but the people who were Falangists before, the old guard, see him as an arriviste, an opportunist who’s only just adopted their creed.”

“So who supports him? Just Franco?”

“And his blessed wife, which is no small matter. Though we’ll see how long the affection lasts.”

Félix was a lifesaver in the lead-up to the event. From the moment I told him the news, and with a theatrical gesture he pretended to gnaw on the five fingers on his hand to demonstrate his envy, there wasn’t a night when he didn’t come by my house to bring me some interesting piece of information about the party, stray bits that he’d picked up here and there in his constant exploratory zeal. We didn’t spend those evenings in the living room as we used to do: I had so much work that our nighttime meetings had been transferred temporarily to the workroom. This small move didn’t seem to matter to him, however: he loved observing the threads, the fabrics, and all that was hidden behind the stitching. And he always had some idea to bring to the design I was working on. Sometimes he was right; many other times, however, he suggested the most outrageous nonsense.

“This velvet marvel of a gown you said you’re making for the wife of the president of the High Court? Make a hole in the ass, see if anyone is actually looking at her. What a waste of material, look how ugly the old whore is,” he said, running his fingers along the pieces of fabric assembled on a mannequin.

“Don’t touch,” I warned him severely, concentrated on my backstitching without even looking at him.

“Sorry, it’s just that the fabric’s got such a beautiful sheen.”

“That’s exactly why: be careful or you’ll leave fingerprints all over it. Come on, let’s get down to business, Félix—tell me, what have you learned today?”

In those days Serrano Suñer’s visit was the talk of Tetouan. In the shops, at the tobacconist’s and the hairdresser’s, in any doctor’s office, in cafés and in groups gathered on the sidewalks, at market stalls and on the way out of Mass, no one talked of anything else. I, however, had so much work that I barely had a minute free to step out onto the street—that was what my good neighbor was for.

“No one is going to miss out on him, the best people in local society are going to gather there for their rendezvous with the In-law-ísimo: the caliph and his great retinue, the grand vizier and the Makhzen, his entire government. All the senior authorities from the Spanish administration, soldiers laden with decorations, attorneys and magistrates, representatives from Morocco’s political parties and the Jewish community, the whole diplomatic corps, the directors of the banks, posh civil servants, powerful businessmen, doctors, every Spaniard, Arab, and Jew of high social standing, and—naturally—the odd parvenu like you, you shameless little thing, slipping in through the back door with your limping reporter on your arm.”

Rosalinda had warned me, though, that the sophistication and glamour of the event would be kept to a minimum: Beigbeder meant to welcome his guest with every honor, but he hadn’t forgotten that we were in a time of war. So there wouldn’t be showy displays, or dancing, or any music other than the caliph’s band. All the same, in spite of the austerity, it was going to be the most dazzling reception the High Commission had organized in a long while, which was why the capital of the Protectorate was in agitated preparation.

Félix also instructed me on some matters of protocol. I never found out where he’d learned them, since his social background was nil and his circle of friends almost as paltry as my own. His life was bounded by his routine work at the General Supplies Office, his mother and her wretchedness, his sporadic nighttime excursions to squalid dives, and the recollection of occasional trips to Tangiers before the war—that was all. He hadn’t so much as set foot in Spain his whole life. But he loved cinema and knew all the American movies shot by shot, in addition to being a voracious reader of foreign magazines, a shameless observer, and the most incorrigible busybody. And cunning as a fox, so that when he went to one source or other it was easy for him to furnish himself with the tools he needed to train me and transform me into an elegant guest with no trace whatsoever of my lack of pedigree.

Some of his pieces of advice were so obvious they were unnecessary. In the time I’d spent with the undesirable Ramiro, I’d known and observed people from the most varied social strata and origins. Together we’d been to a thousand parties and dozens of assorted establishments and good restaurants, in Tangiers as well as Madrid; as a result I had assimilated a host of little routines to get by confidently at social gatherings. Just the same, Félix decided to begin my instruction with the most basic information.