María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, don’t make noise while you’re eating, and don’t wipe your mouth on your sleeve, or put your fork all the way into your mouth, or gulp down all your wine at once, or hold up your glass whimpering to the waiter to fill it back up for you. Use ‘please’ and ‘thank you very much’ where appropriate, but only murmured, not overly effusively. And as you know, say a simple ‘pleased to meet you’ each time you’re introduced to someone, none of that ‘the pleasure is all mine’ or vulgarities of that sort. If people talk to you about things you don’t know about or don’t understand, give them one of your dazzling smiles and keep nice and quiet, just nodding from time to time. And when you have no choice but to speak, remember to keep your lies to an absolute minimum, or you’ll find yourself caught in them: it’s one thing having told just a few teeny little fibs to promote yourself as a haut couturier , but quite another putting yourself in the lion’s mouth strutting around in front of people with enough insight or enough class to spot your lies the moment they’re out of your mouth. If anything astonishes you or delights you, just say ‘that’s good’ or ‘most impressive’ or a similar adjective; at no point should you demonstrate your enthusiasm with excessive arm waving, slapping your thigh, or using phrases such as ‘well I never!’ or ‘you don’t say!’ If someone makes a comment you find funny, don’t laugh wildly, showing your wisdom teeth, or double over holding your belly. Just smile, blink, and avoid making any comment at all. And don’t give your opinion when you aren’t asked for it or say indiscreet things like ‘And who might you be, my good man?’ or ‘Don’t tell me that fat lady is your wife?’ ”

“But I know all this, Félix dear,” I said, laughing. “I may be only a simple dressmaker, but I wasn’t brought up in a cave. Tell me some things that are a little more interesting, please.”

“Very well, then, darling, as you wish; I was only trying to be useful, in case any little detail eluded you. Down to the serious stuff, then.”

And so over the course of several nights, Félix sketched out for me the profiles of the most distinguished, and one by one I went about memorizing their names, positions, and responsibilities, and on several occasions their faces, too, thanks to the array of newspapers, magazines, photographs, and catalogs that he brought over. In this way I learned where they lived, what they did with their time, how wealthy they were, and where they were ranked in the local hierarchy. To tell the truth, these things really didn’t interest me all that much, but Marcus Logan was counting on my being able to identify the relevant people, and to do that I needed to prepare myself.

“I would imagine that given where your companion is from, the two of you will probably be mostly with the foreigners,” he said. “And I suppose, apart from the locals, there will be a few others coming over from Tangiers; the In-law-ísimo has no plans to go there on his tour, so, as you know, if Mohammed won’t go to the mountain…”

That gave me some comfort: mixed up with a group of expatriates I’d never seen before and whom I’d probably never see again in my life, I’d feel much safer than surrounded by locals I might run into daily on a street corner. Félix informed me, too, of the order of protocol, how the guests would be greeted and the sequence of events, one step at a time. I listened to him, memorizing the details while sewing more intensely than I’d ever sewed before.

Until at last the big day arrived. Over the course of the morning the final orders left the workshop in Jamila’s arms; at noon all the work had been delivered and there was calm at last. I imagined that the other guests would already be finishing their lunches now, getting ready to take a rest in the dark of their bedrooms with their shutters closed or waiting their turn at Justo and Miguel’s haute coiffure salon. I envied them: with barely a moment to get a bite to eat, I still had to devote my siesta time to sewing my outfit. When I set to work, it was a quarter to three. The reception was due to start at eight, and Marcus Logan had sent me a message notifying me that he would be coming to collect me at half past seven. I still had a world of things to do and less than five hours ahead to do them all.

When I’d finished the ironing I looked at my watch. Six twenty. The garment was ready; all I needed to do now was make myself presentable.

I sank into the bath and let my mind go blank. The nerves would be there when the event drew closer, but for now I deserved a rest: a rest in hot water and soap bubbles. I felt my tired body relax, felt my fingers, weary of sewing, loosen up from their stiffness and my neck muscles unclench. I started to doze off; the world seemed to be melting into the porcelain of the bathtub. I couldn’t remember such a pleasurable moment in months, but the lovely feeling didn’t last long: it was interrupted by the bathroom door being thrown wide open without so much as a knock.

“But what are you thinking of, girl?” yelled Candelaria. “It’s after six thirty and you’re still soaking like a chickpea; honey, you won’t have enough time! When were you thinking about getting yourself together?”

The Matutera had brought along what she considered to be her vital emergency kit: her dear friend Remedios the hairdresser and Angelita, a woman who lived next door to the boardinghouse and had a gift for manicure. A short while before I’d sent Jamila to La Luneta to buy some hairpins; she’d run into Candelaria on the way, which was how the Matutera learned that I was much more concerned about my clients’ clothes than my own and barely had a minute free to get myself ready.

“Hurry up, then, girl; get yourself out of the tub, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us and we’re desperately short on time.”

I allowed myself to be taken over; it would have been impossible to fight against that whirlwind. And of course I was deeply grateful for her help: there was only three-quarters of an hour left before Marcus Logan would arrive and I still looked (as the Matutera put it) like a scrub brush. The moment I managed to get a towel wrapped around my body, the work began.

Angelita the neighbor focused on my hands, rubbing them with oil, removing rough areas, and filing my nails. Candelaria’s dear Remedios, meanwhile, took charge of my hair. Knowing I wouldn’t have much time in the evening, I’d washed it that morning; what I needed now was a decent hairdo. Candelaria served as assistant to them both, holding out tweezers and scissors, curlers and pieces of cotton, while—never once stopping talking—she filled us in on the latest information about Serrano Suñer that was circulating around Tetouan. He’d arrived two days earlier and had been escorted by Beigbeder around all the relevant places and met all the relevant personalities in North Africa: from Ksar el Kabir to Chefchaouen and then to Dar Riffien, from the caliph to the grand vizier. I hadn’t seen Rosalinda since the previous week; yet the news had been circulating from mouth to mouth.

“They say they had a Moorish meal yesterday in Ketama, surrounded by pine trees, sitting on rugs on the ground. They say the In-law-ísimo almost had conniptions when he saw everyone eating with their fingers; the man had no idea how to bring couscous to his mouth without dropping half of it along the way…”

“And the high commissioner was utterly thrilled, playing the great host and smoking one cigar after another,” added a voice from the doorway. It was Félix, naturally.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked, surprised. His afternoon walk with his mother was sacred, even more so on a day like today when the whole city was out on the street. Tipping his thumb against his mouth, he indicated that Doña Encarna was at home, obligingly drunk earlier than usual.