María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“I don’t understand.” I was still whispering.

I really didn’t understand. Secret services. Underground collaborators. Agents. Espionage. Infiltrating. This was the first time I’d heard about any of this in my life.

“Well, you shouldn’t imagine I’m so used to all this terminology myself. It’s practically new to me, too; I’ve had to learn an awful lot terribly fast. As I told you in one of my letters, Juan Luis has become close to British ambassador Hoare lately. And now that his days at the ministry are numbered, the two of them have decided to work together. Hoare doesn’t directly control the secret services in Madrid himself, however. Let’s say he oversees it, he’s ultimately responsible for it, but he doesn’t coordinate it personally.”

“So who does, then?”

I was waiting for her to tell me she did it herself and reveal that it had all been no more than a joke. And we’d both laugh wildly about it and then finally go out for dinner and dancing at Villa Harris as we’d done so many times before. But she didn’t.

“Alan Hillgarth, our embassy’s naval attaché; he’s the person in charge of the whole thing. He’s a very special fellow, a marine from a family with a long navy tradition, married to a lady from the high aristocracy who is also involved in his activities. He arrived in Madrid at the same time as Hoare, under the cover of his official position, to take covert charge of the activities of the SOE and the SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service.”

SOE: Special Operations Executive. SIS: Secret Intelligence Service. The whole thing sounded completely strange to me. I pressed her to clarify.

“The SIS is the Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6, the Directorate of Military Intelligence Section 6; the sixth section of Military Intelligence, an agency dedicated to the secret services’ operations outside Great Britain. Espionage activities in non-British territories, to be quite clear. It’s been in operation since before the Great War, and its staff, usually under some diplomatic or military cover, are involved in covert actions normally through existing power structures, through influential people or authorities in the countries in which they are operating. The SOE, in contrast, is new. It’s riskier, because they don’t depend just on professionals, but for the same reason it’s also much more flexible. It’s an emergency operation for the new wartime, if I can put it like that. They’re prepared to collaborate with anyone who might be of use to them. The organization has only just been established, and Hillgarth, the coordinator for Spain, needs to recruit agents. Urgently. And for this he’s sounding out people he trusts who can put him in contact with other people who in turn can be directly helpful. So you might say that Juan Luis and I are that kind of intermediary. Hoare hasn’t been around for long at all, he hardly knows anyone. Hillgarth spent the whole civil war as vice consul in Majorca, but he’s also new in Madrid and not yet in absolute control of his territory. We haven’t been asked, Juan Luis and I—he as an openly Anglophile minister and I as a British citizen—to be directly involved: they know that we’re too well known and we’ll always be suspected. But they have approached us to supply them with contacts. So we’ve thought about a few of our friends. You, among others. And that’s why I’ve come to see you.”

I preferred not to ask what exactly it was that she wanted from me. Whether or not I did, she was going to tell me anyway, and it would provoke just the same panic in me, so I decided to focus my attention on filling the glasses again; all this was far too heavy to deal with without a drink. But the cocktail shaker was empty. So I got up and rummaged among the boxes stacked against the wall. I took out a bottle of something that turned out to be whiskey, removed the cap, and took a long swig. I passed it to Rosalinda. She did the same and handed it back, then continued talking. Meanwhile, I went back to my drinking.

“We thought that you could set up an atelier in Madrid and sew for the wives of the high-ranking Nazis.”

My throat closed up, and the shot of whiskey I had almost swallowed shot back out of my mouth in a loud spray. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. When I was finally able to speak, only four words came out.

“You’re both raving mad.”

She didn’t even seem to acknowledge that I was referring to her and went on.

“They all used to get their clothes in Paris, but since the German army invaded France in May most of the haute couture houses have shut down; not many people want to keep working in occupied Paris. La Maison Vionnet, La Maison Chanel on the Rue Cambon, the Schiaparelli shop on the Place Vendôme: almost all the major ones have gone.”

Rosalinda’s references to Parisian haute couture, perhaps coupled with my nerves, the cocktails, and the shots of whiskey, made me give a hoarse laugh.

“And you want me to replace all these designers in Madrid?”

I couldn’t get her to share my laughter, and she went on talking seriously.

“You could try it out in your own way, on a small scale. This is the perfect moment, because there aren’t that many choices. Paris is now out of the question, and Berlin is too far. Either they get their wardrobes in Madrid or they don’t get to show off new designs for the season that’s just about to begin, which would be a tragedy for them because the essence of their lives these days is centered exclusively on an intense social life. I’ve been learning about it: a lot of Madrid’s ateliers are back in operation now, getting ready for the autumn. There was a rumor that Balenciaga was going to reopen his workshop this year, but he ended up not doing it. I’ve got the names here of the ones that are planning to open,” she said, removing a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket. “Flora Villareal; Brígida at number thirty-seven, Carrera de San Jerónimo; Natalio at number eighteen Lagasca; Madame Raguette at number two, Bárbara de Braganza; Pedro Rodríguez at number sixty-two Alcalá; Cottret at number eight, Fernando Sixth.”

Some of them were familiar to me, others weren’t. Doña Manuela could have been among them, but Rosalinda didn’t mention her: perhaps she hadn’t reopened her workshop. When she had finished reading the list she tore the bit of paper into a thousand little pieces and left them in the ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

“In spite of the efforts to show new collections and offer customers the best designs, they all, however, share the same problem, they all have the same limitation. So it won’t be easy for any of them to make a success of it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The scarcity of fabric, the severe scarcity of fabric. Neither Spain nor France is producing materials for this sort of sewing; those factories that haven’t closed down are focusing on fulfilling the basic needs of the population or developing materials destined for the war. They use the cotton to make uniforms; the linen, bandages; any sort of fabric has a function that’s a higher priority than fashion. You’ll be able to overcome this problem by bringing fabrics from Tangiers. There’s still trade here, there’s no problem with imports like there is on the Peninsula. You get products coming here from America and Argentina, there’s still a good stock of French fabrics and English wools, Indian and Chinese silks from previous years: you can take it all with you. And if you end up needing more supplies, we’ll find some way for you to get hold of them. If you arrive in Madrid with material and ideas, and if I can spread the word among my contacts, you could be the dressmaker of the season. You won’t have any competition, Sira: you’ll be the only person who can give them what they want: ostentation, luxury, utter frivolity, as though the world were a grand ballroom rather than the bloody battlefield they’ve made it. And the German women, all of them, will be over you like vultures.”