María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“And since you’re going to be abandoning me tonight for some upstart journalist, at least I didn’t want to miss out on the preparations. Anything I can help with, ladies?”

“Aren’t you the one who paints divinely?” Candelaria asked him suddenly. Each knew about the other, but this was the first time they’d met.

“Like Murillo himself.”

“Then how about seeing if you can do this girl’s eyes?” she said, holding out a makeup case that she’d got hold of from heaven knows where.

Félix had never made anyone up in his life, but he didn’t flinch from the task. Quite the contrary: he accepted the Matutera’s order as though it were a gift, and having consulted the photographs in a couple of issues of Vanity Fair in search of inspiration, he became engrossed in my face as though it were a canvas.

At seven fifteen I was still wrapped in my towel with my arms stretched out, while Candelaria and her neighbor blew the nail polish dry. At seven twenty Félix finished going over my eyebrows with his thumbs. At twenty-five past, Remedios put the final pin in my hair, and just a few seconds later Jamila ran like a maniac in from the balcony, announcing at the top of her lungs that my date had just appeared at the end of the street.

“And now, just a couple of little things left,” my business partner announced.

“It’s all perfect, Candelaria: there’s no time for anything else,” I said, going off half naked to fetch my outfit.

“Don’t even think about it,” I heard her warning behind me.

“I really can’t stop, Candelaria, honestly…,” I insisted anxiously.

“Shut up and look, I said,” she commanded, grabbing me by the arm halfway down the corridor. Then she held out a small flat packet wrapped in crinkled paper.

I tore off the wrapping, realizing I couldn’t refuse any longer; I knew there was no way I was going to win this one.

“Candelaria, I don’t believe it!” I said, unfolding a pair of silk stockings. “How did you get hold of these? You told me there weren’t any to be had for months.”

“Just stop talking once and for all and open this one now,” she said, stopping my flow of gratitude and handing me another packet.

In the coarse wrapping paper I found a beautiful object, shell shaped and golden edged.

“It’s a compact,” she explained proudly. “For you to powder your nose all up, to show you’re no less than any of the grand important ladies you’re going to be rubbing shoulders with.”

“It’s lovely,” I whispered, stroking the surface. Then I opened it: inside there was a tablet of compacted powder, a small mirror, and a white cotton powder puff. “Thank you very much, Candelaria. You needn’t have bothered, you’ve already done so much for me…”

I couldn’t say any more for two reasons: I was about to cry, and at just that moment the doorbell sounded. The noise of the bell made me react, there was no time to get sentimental.

“Jamila, open it—quick!” I commanded. “Félix, bring me the slip that’s on the bed; Candelaria, help me with the stockings, if I rush I’ll end up making a run in them. Remedios, you get the shoes; Angelita, draw the curtain in the hallway. Let’s go, everyone into the workroom so he won’t hear us.”

I’d finally used the raw silk to sew myself a two-piece outfit with broad lapels, a fitted waist, and évasée skirt. Since I didn’t have any jewels, the only accessory I wore was a tobacco-colored cloth flower at my shoulder, which matched the vertiginously heeled shoes that a cobbler in the Moorish quarter had fashioned for me. Remedios had succeeded in transforming my hair into an elegant loose bun that gracefully emphasized Félix’s improvised makeup job. Despite my friend’s inexperience, the result was superb: he’d filled my eyes with joy, and lips with voluptuousness, and found a glow in my tired face.

Between all of them, they managed to dress me, put my shoes on, and retouch my hair and my rouge. I didn’t even have time to look at myself in the mirror; as soon as I knew that I was ready I went out into the hallway and rushed along it on the tips of my shoes. Arriving at the foyer I stopped and, feigning an easy pace, walked into the living room. Marcus Logan had his back to me, watching the street through one of the balcony windows. He turned when he heard my footsteps on the floor tiles.

Nine days had passed since our previous meeting, and over that time the traces of the aches and pains with which the journalist had arrived seemed to have diminished. He was waiting for me with his left hand in the pocket of a dark suit, and he no longer wore a sling. On his face there were now barely more than a few traces of what used to be bloody wounds, and his skin had absorbed the Moroccan sun until it was a tanned color that contrasted starkly with the spotless white of his shirt. He stood without any apparent effort, his shoulders firm, his back straight. He smiled on seeing me, and this time it didn’t seem hard for him to stretch his lips in both directions.

“The In-law-ísimo isn’t going to want to go back to Burgos after seeing you tonight,” was how he greeted me.

I tried to give a reply that was equally clever but was distracted by a voice behind me.

“Very nice, girl,” pronounced Félix in a hoarse whisper from his hiding place in the foyer.

I stifled a smile and just said, “Shall we go?”

He didn’t get a chance to reply, for just as he was about to do so an overwhelming presence invaded the room.

“Hang on just a sec, Don Marcus,” the Matutera insisted, raising her hand as though seeking an audience. “Just one little piece of advice I’d like to give you before the two of you are off, if I may.”

Logan looked at me, rather disconcerted.

“She’s a friend,” I explained.

“In that case you can say whatever you want to me.”

Candelaria walked over to him and started talking to him while pretending to remove some nonexistent lint from the front of his jacket.

“You just watch yourself, scribbler, this girl’s already got a lot of misfortunes on her back. So if you make a move on her with your moneyed outsider’s ways, I’m just going to have to come down on you like a ton of bricks, because if you start getting too cocky and harm a single hair of her head, my cousin and I will get someone to do a little number on you before you know what’s what, and one of these fine nights you’ll find yourself taking a blade in one of the streets in the Morería and getting the good side of your face slashed till it’s left like the hide of a piglet, all marked up for the rest of your days, you get me, sweetheart?”

The journalist was unable to reply; fortunately, in spite of his impeccable Spanish, he’d barely been able to understand a word of my business partner’s threatening speech.

“What did she say?” he asked, turning to me with a confused expression.

“Nothing important. Come on, it’s getting late.”

I was struggling to hide my pride as we left. Not at how I looked, or at the attractive man I had beside me, or the celebrated event that was awaiting us that night, but for the unshakable affection of the friends I was leaving behind.

The streets were adorned with red and gold flags, with garlands and posters greeting the distinguished visitor and exalting his brother-in-law. Hundreds of people, Arab and Spanish, were milling about, toward no apparent destination. The balconies, adorned with the Nationalist colors, were full of people, the roof terraces, too. There were young men perched in the most implausible places—on poles, railings, lampposts—trying to find the best spot to witness the action; girls walking arm in arm, their lips newly painted. Children ran around in packs, zigzagging in every direction. The Spanish kids were all combed and smelling of cologne, the boys with their little ties and the girls with satin bows at the end of their plaits; the Moorish children were in their djellabas and tarbooshes, many of them barefoot.