María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Come in, don’t stand there in the doorway,” I said, trying to hide the fluster that her unexpected arrival had caused.

“No, I don’t want to come in, I’m in a rush. I just came by to give you a message.”

The situation was so tense and outlandish that I would never have believed it if I wasn’t living through it that morning. My mother and I, who had shared so much and were so alike in so many ways, seemed to have been transformed into two strangers distrustful of each other, like stray dogs sizing each other up warily from a distance.

She remained standing at the door, serious, erect, her hair in a tight bun in which the first grey strands could be seen. Tall and dignified, her angular eyebrows framing the reproach in her stare. Somehow elegant in spite of the simplicity of her attire. When at last she stopped examining me carefully, she spoke. However—and in spite of what I had feared—her words were not intended to criticize me.

“I’ve come to bring you a message. A request that isn’t mine. You can accept it or not, you’ll see. But I think you should say yes. You think about it; better late than never.”

She would not cross the threshold, and her visit lasted only one more minute: as long as it took to give me an address and a meeting time that same afternoon before turning her back without the slightest formality of a good-bye. It seemed strange to me that she hadn’t communicated anything more, but I didn’t have too long to wait for what I feared to be said: just as long as it took her to start going down the stairs.

“And wash that face, comb your hair, and put something on, you look like a whore.”

I shared my astonishment with Ramiro at lunchtime. I couldn’t make any sense of it, I didn’t know what could be behind such an unexpected request. I was suspicious and begged him to go with me. Where? To meet my father. Why? Because that was what he’d requested. What for? Even with ten years of wondering I still wouldn’t have been able to guess at even the vaguest reason.

We had settled that I should meet my mother in the midafternoon at the address she mentioned: Hermosilla 19. A very good street, a very good building; much like the ones that in another time I had visited carrying newly sewn clothes. I was painstaking in composing my appearance for the encounter: I had chosen a blue woollen dress, a matching coat, and a small hat with three feathers tipped gracefully over my left ear. It had all been paid for by Ramiro, naturally: they were the first pieces of clothing to touch my body that hadn’t been sewn by my mother or myself. I was wearing high-heeled shoes and my hair fell loosely down my back; I barely wore any makeup. This afternoon I didn’t want any criticism. I looked at myself in the mirror before going out. A full-length one. The image of Ramiro was reflected behind me, smiling, admiring me with his hands in his pockets.

“You’re amazing. He’s going to be impressed.”

I tried to smile gratefully at the comment, but I just couldn’t. I was pretty, it’s true; pretty and special looking, someone quite different from whom I’d been just a few months earlier. Pretty, special looking, and scared as a mouse, scared to death, regretting that I’d accepted that unusual request.

From my mother’s expression when we arrived, I deduced that she was displeased to see Ramiro at my side. Seeing our intention to go in together, she stopped us without a thought.

“This is family business; if you don’t mind, you’ll remain here.”

And without waiting for a response, she turned and crossed through the imposing black iron and glass door. I wanted to have him beside me, I needed his support and his strength, but I didn’t dare face her down. I merely whispered to Ramiro that it would be best if he left and I followed her inside.

“We’ve come to see Señor Alvarado. He’s expecting us,” she announced to the doorman. He nodded and without a word he turned to accompany us to the elevator.

“Thank you, there’s no need.”

We went through the wide door and began to climb the stairs, my mother ahead of me, stepping firmly, without even touching the polished wood of the banister, in a suit I didn’t recognize. Me behind her, fearful, clinging to the handrail as though to a life vest on a stormy night. The two of us silent as tombs. Thoughts gathered in my head as we went up the steps one by one. First landing. Why did my mother move around so familiarly in that unknown place? Mezzanine. What would the man we were coming to see be like, why this sudden insistence on meeting me after so many years? Main floor. The rest of my thoughts remained crowded together in the limbo of my mind. I didn’t have time for them; we’d arrived. A large door to the right, my mother’s finger on the bell pressing firmly, without any sign of intimidation. The door opened at once, a shriveled old maid in a black uniform and spotless white cap.

“Good afternoon, Servanda. We’ve come to see the master of the house. I imagine he’s in the library.”

Servanda’s mouth was left half open, the greeting hanging from it, as though she had been visited by a couple of ghosts. When she managed to react and it seemed she was at last going to be able to say something, a faceless voice could be heard over hers. A man’s voice, hoarse, strong, from the back.

“Let them come through.”

The maid stepped to one side, still caught in a nervous fluster. She didn’t need to show us the way: my mother seemed to know it all too well. We walked down a broad corridor, passing large rooms, their walls covered with hangings, tapestries, and family portraits. Arriving at a double door, open on the left-hand side, my mother turned toward it. We then noticed a large man waiting for us in the middle of the room. And the powerful voice again.

“Come in.”

A large desk covered in paper, a large bookcase filled with books, a large man looking at me, first my eyes, then down, then back up again. Discovering me. He swallowed, I swallowed. He took a few steps toward us, put his hand on my arm, and squeezed, not too hard, as though wanting to be sure that I really existed. He smiled slightly, as though with an aftertaste of melancholy.

“You’re just like your mother was twenty-five years ago.”

He kept his gaze fixed on mine as he held on to me for a second, two, three, ten. Then, still without letting me go, he looked away and fixed his gaze on my mother. The weak, bitter smile returned to his face.

“How long it’s been, Dolores.”

She didn’t answer, nor did she avoid his eyes. Then he released his hand from my arm and held it out toward her; he didn’t seem to be after a greeting, just a contact, a glancing touch, as though hoping that her fingers would come out to meet his. But she remained immobile, not answering the invitation, until he seemed to awake from the enchantment, cleared his throat, and, in a tone that was as courteous as it was determinedly neutral, offered us a seat.

Instead of heading for the big work table where the papers were gathered, he invited us toward another corner of the library. My mother settled into one armchair, and he sat opposite. And me alone on a sofa, in the middle, between the two of them. Tense, uncomfortable, all three of us. He busied himself lighting a cigar. She remained sitting erect, her knees together and her back straight. Meanwhile, I scratched with my index finger at the wine-colored damask upholstery of the sofa, my attention focused on the task, as though I were trying to make a hole in the warp of the fabric and escape through it like a little lizard. The atmosphere filled with smoke, and the throat clearing returned as though in anticipation of some intervention, but before this could be spilled into the air my mother spoke. She was addressing me, though her eyes remained on him. Her voice forced me at last to lift my gaze to the two of them.