María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Mr. Jason,” he said simply, gesturing toward a man at the far side of the roof terrace, then vanished, trotting back down the stairs.

This man had extremely thick eyebrows, and his name wasn’t Jason, but Hillgarth. Alan Hillgarth, naval attaché of the British embassy in Madrid and coordinator of the activities of the Secret Intelligence Service in Spain. A wide face, ample brow, and dark hair perfectly parted and combed back with brilliantine. He approached me, dressed in a grey alpaca suit whose quality I was able to recognize even at a distance. He walked confidently, holding a black leather briefcase in his left hand, and then introduced himself, shaking my hand and inviting me to take a few moments to enjoy the view. It was indeed impressive. The port, the bay, the whole strait, and a strip of land beyond.

“Spain,” he said, pointing to the horizon. “So near, and yet so far away. Shall we sit?”

He gestured toward a wrought iron bench and we sat down. He drew a small metal box of Craven A cigarettes from his jacket pocket. I accepted one and together we smoked, looking out to sea. We could barely hear any sounds from nearby, just a few voices in Arabic wafting up from the nearby streets, and from time to time the shrill sounds of the gulls that were flying over the beach.

“Everything is almost ready in Madrid and awaiting your arrival,” he announced at last.

His Spanish was excellent. I didn’t reply, I had nothing to say—all I wanted was to hear his instructions.

“We’ve rented an apartment on Calle Núñez de Balboa—do you know where that is?”

“Yes, I worked near there for a bit.”

“Mrs. Fox is taking charge of furnishing it and getting it ready. Via intermediaries, naturally.”

“I understand.”

“I know she’s already got you up to speed, but I think it would be best for me to remind you. Colonel Beigbeder and Mrs. Fox are in an extremely delicate position right now. We’re all expecting the colonel’s dismissal from the ministry; it would appear that it won’t be long in coming, and it’ll be a dreadful loss to our government. Right now Mr. Serrano Suñer, the minister of governance, has just left for Berlin: they’ve arranged for him to meet von Ribbentrop, Beigbeder’s counterpart, and then Hitler. The fact that Spain’s own minister of foreign affairs isn’t involved in this trip but staying behind in Madrid is an indication of how fragile his position is. In the meantime, the colonel and Mrs. Fox are collaborating with us, bringing us some very interesting contacts. Everything, naturally, is happening in a clandestine fashion. Both are closely followed by agents of certain bodies that are rather unfriendly, if you’ll allow the euphemism.”

“The Gestapo and the Falange,” I noted, recalling Rosalinda’s words.

“I see you’re already well informed. Yes, in fact. We don’t want the same to happen to you, though I can’t guarantee that we’ll be able to avoid it. But don’t get too worried. Everyone in Madrid watches everyone else: everyone is under suspicion for something and nobody trusts anybody, but fortunately for us there isn’t a lot of patience around: everyone seems to be in a tearing hurry, so if they don’t manage to find anything interesting, in a few days they forget about the target and move on to the next one. That notwithstanding, if you do think you’re being watched, let us know and we’ll try to find out who’s doing it. And above all, keep calm. Move about quite naturally, don’t try to throw them off, and don’t get nervous, you understand me?”

“I think so,” I said, without sounding very convinced.

“Mrs. Fox,” he said, changing the subject, “is getting the ball rolling in anticipation of your arrival; I think she’s already secured you a handful of potential clients. Which is why—and now that autumn is already almost upon us—it would be good for you to get yourself installed in Madrid as soon as possible. When do you think you could do it?”

“Whenever you say.”

“Thank you for being so obliging. We’ve taken the liberty of arranging a flight for you for next Tuesday—does that suit you?”

I discreetly rested my hands on my knees—I was afraid they’d start to shake.

“I’ll be ready.”

“Excellent. As I understand it, Mrs. Fox has already told you a bit about the aims of your mission.”

“More or less.”

“Well, I’m going to give you some further details now. What we need from you, to begin with, is to send us periodic reports about certain German women, and other Spanish women, who we expect will shortly become your clients. As Mrs. Fox has told you, the shortage of fabrics has been turning into a serious problem for Spanish dressmakers, and we know firsthand that there are a number of women living in Madrid who are eager to find someone who can offer them dressmaking skills as well as materials. That’s where you’ll come in. If our predictions are correct, your collaboration will be extremely valuable to us, since right now our contacts with the German authorities in Madrid are nil, and contacts with the Spanish authorities almost nonexistent, with the exception of Colonel Beigbeder, and him not for too much longer, I fear. The information we want to get hold of through you will be largely on the movements of the Nazi colony living in Madrid and of a few Spaniards connected to them. Following each one of them individually is quite beyond our capacities, which is why we thought that through their wives and girlfriends we might get some idea of their contacts, their relationships and activities. All clear so far?”

“Yes, all clear.”

“Our primary interest is to learn in advance of the social plans of the German community in Madrid: the events they’re organizing, which Spaniards they’re in contact with, where they meet and how often. A great deal of their strategic activity is carried out more in social events than through office work, so to speak, and we’d like to get people we trust infiltrating them. When they go to these functions the Nazi representatives are usually accompanied by their wives, and we assume that they have to go appropriately dressed. We hope, therefore, that you’ll be able to get advance information about where your clothes are going to be worn. Do you think that would be possible?”

“Yes, it’s quite usual for clients to talk about all that. The problem is that my German is very limited.”

“We’ve already thought about that. We’ve arranged a little help for you. As I’m sure you know, Colonel Beigbeder spent several years as military attaché in Berlin. Working in the embassy kitchens at the time was a Spanish couple with two daughters; apparently the colonel was very good to them, helped them out with some problems, took an interest in the girls’ education, and in short they had a good relationship, which was interrupted when he was posted to Morocco. Well, when they heard that the former attaché had been named the new minister, the family—who had been back in Spain for a few years—got in touch with him, asking his help again. The mother died before the war and the father suffers from chronic asthma and can barely leave the house; he doesn’t have any formal political affiliation either, which suits us very well. The father asked Beigbeder to find work for his daughters, and now we’re going to offer them some, if you’ll agree. They’re two young women, aged seventeen and nineteen, who understand and speak German absolutely fluently. I don’t know them personally, but Mrs. Fox interviewed them both a few days ago and was quite satisfied. She’s asked me to say that you won’t miss Jamila with them in the house. I don’t know who Jamila is, but I hope you understand the message.”

I smiled for the first time since the conversation had begun.