María Dueñas - The Time in Between

As we made our way toward the Plaza de España, the mass of bodies became denser, the voices louder. It was hot and the light was still intense; we could hear a band tuning up. Temporary wooden bleachers had been set out; the whole space was already occupied to the last inch. Marcus Logan needed to show his invitation several times for them to let us past the security barriers that separated the mob from the areas through which the dignitaries were to pass. We barely spoke as we walked: the hubbub and the constant interruptions to get past some obstacle or other made conversation difficult. Sometimes I had to grab hard on to his arm to prevent us from being separated by the crowd; other times it was he who had to hold firmly on to my shoulders to stop me from being swallowed up by the hungry chaos. It took us a while to get there, but we made it. As we went in through the gate to the High Commission, I felt a jolt of anxiety, then tried to suppress it.

There were several Arab soldiers guarding the entrance, imposing in their dress uniforms, with big turbans and capes flapping in the wind. We crossed the garden, which was adorned with flags and banners, and an adjutant directed us to a large group of guests who were waiting for things to begin, gathered under the white awnings that had been erected for the occasion. Waiting in its shade were peaked caps, gloves and pearls, ties, fans, blue shirts under white jackets with the Falange crest embroidered at the breast, and a decent number of dresses sewn—stitch by stitch—by my own hands. I discreetly gestured a greeting to several clients, pretending not to notice the few stares and hidden whispers that we received from various places—Who is she, Who is he, I could read in the movement of some of their lips. I recognized certain faces, many of which I’d only seen in the photographs Félix had shown me in the preceding days; with others, meanwhile, I had a more personal connection. With Commissioner Vázquez, for example, who masterfully hid his disbelief at seeing me in that setting.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, moving away from a group and approaching us.

“Good evening, Don Claudio.” I tried hard to sound natural; I don’t know whether I succeeded. “Good to see you.”

“Sure about that?” he asked with an ironic smile.

I couldn’t reply because—to my astonishment—he’d gone straight on to greet my companion.

“Good evening, Mr. Logan. I see you’ve gotten yourself well accustomed to local life.”

“The commissioner called me into his office as soon as I arrived in Tetouan,” the journalist explained as they shook hands. “Formalities for visiting foreigners.”

“Right now he’s not under suspicion for anything, but let me know if you see him acting strangely,” joked the commissioner. “And you, Logan, you take care of Miss Quiroga for me—she’s had a tough year, working nonstop.”

We left the commissioner and continued on our way. At all times the journalist was relaxed and attentive, and I did what I could to avoid feeling like a fish out of water. He hardly knew anyone either, but this didn’t seem to trouble him in the least: he got by with great composure, with an enviable confidence that was probably a result of his occupation. Remembering what Félix had taught me, I discreetly pointed out to him who some of the guests were: that man in a dark suit is José Ignacio Toledano, a rich Jew, the director of the Hassan Bank; that elegant woman with the feathered headdress who’s smoking with a cigarette holder is the Duchess of Guise, a French noblewoman who lives in Larache; the large man whose glass is being refilled is Mariano Bertuchi, the painter. Everything went according to protocol. More guests arrived, then the Spanish civil authorities, and then the soldiers; the Moroccans next, in their exotic outfits. From the coolness of the garden we could hear the clamor from the streets—the shouts, the cheering and applause. He’s arrived, he’s here, we heard again and again. But the guest of honor still took a while to come into view: first he stopped in the crowds, to be acclaimed like a bullfighter or one of those American movie stars who so fascinated my neighbor.

And finally he arrived, the man so long awaited, so desired, El Caudillo’s brother-in-law, and long live Spain. He wore a black suit and looked serious, stiff, extremely thin, and tremendously handsome with his almost white hair combed back. His expression was resolute, as the Falange anthem said, with those intelligent cat’s eyes and his thirty-seven somewhat ill-worn years.

I must have been one of the few people without the slightest curiosity to see him up close or to shake his hand, but all the same I didn’t look away. It wasn’t Serrano who interested me, but someone who was very close to him and whom I hadn’t yet seen in person: Juan Luis Beigbeder. My client and friend’s lover turned out to be a tall man, thin but not too thin, somewhere around fifty. He wore a dress uniform with a broad sash tied around his waist and a peaked cap and carried a light cane, a sort of riding crop. His nose was thin and prominent: beneath it, a dark mustache; above it, round-framed glasses, two perfect circles through which it was possible to make out a pair of intelligent eyes that followed everything that was happening around him. He seemed an odd man, perhaps a little quaint. In spite of his attire, he didn’t have a martial bearing at all: far from it. There was something in the way he moved that was a little theatrical, which nonetheless didn’t seem to be a pretense: his gestures were refined and opulent at the same time, his laugh expansive, his voice quick and resonant. He moved around among the guests nonstop, greeting people effusively, distributing hugs, pats on the back, and prolonged handshakes; he smiled as he talked to people, to Moors, Christians, Jews, and then back to the beginning again. Perhaps in his free time he let out the intellectual romantic that according to Rosalinda he had inside him, but at that moment the only thing he displayed to his audience was an extraordinary gift for public relations.

He seemed to have tied Serrano Suñer to him with an invisible rope; sometimes he allowed him to move away just a little, gave him some freedom of movement to greet people and have little chats with them himself, to allow him to be adored. And yet he would then immediately reel him back to his vicinity: he’d explain something to him, introduce him to someone, put his arm around his shoulders, say a few words into his ear, give a laugh, and then let him go again.

I tried repeatedly to find Rosalinda, but I couldn’t. Not at the side of her dear Juan Luis, nor far from him.

“Have you seen Señora Fox anywhere?” I asked Logan when he finished exchanging a few words in English with someone from Tangiers to whom he introduced me and whose name and position I forgot instantly.

“No, I haven’t seen her,” he replied simply, focusing his attention on the group that was forming around Serrano. “Do you know who they are?” he said, gesturing toward them with a discreet movement of his chin.

“The Germans,” I replied.

There was the demanding Frau Langenheim, in the magnificent outfit of violet shantung that I’d sewn for her; Frau Heinz, who’d been my first client, dressed in black and white like a harlequin; Bernhardt’s wife, who had an Argentine accent and this time was not premiering an outfit; and one other I didn’t know. All of them accompanied by their husbands, all of them fêting the In-law-ísimo while he dispensed smiles in the midst of the tight group of Germans. This time, however, Beigbeder didn’t interrupt their conversation and allowed him to stay where he was, unaccompanied, for a long time.