María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“And who’ll collect it?”

“Someone we trust, you needn’t concern yourself with that. Someone who that same afternoon, very shortly after you leave, will go into the salon to get her hair done just as you did earlier, and will use the same locker.”

“And if it’s taken?”

“That doesn’t usually happen because it’s the last one. If that happens, however, use the one before it. And if that one is, too, then the next. And so on. Is that clear? Now repeat it all back to me, please.”

“Hairdresser’s on Wednesday early afternoon. I’ll use the last locker, I’ll open the door, and as I’m putting my things inside I’ll take out of my bag, or wherever I’ve been keeping it, a tube in which I’ve placed all the patterns I have to get to you.”

“Tie them with a ribbon or a rubber band. Sorry to interrupt—go on.”

“Then I’ll leave the tube on the top shelf, pushed all the way back. Then I’ll close the locker and go get my hair done.”

“Very good. Now for the Saturday delivery. For those days we’ve planned to work at the Prado Museum. We have a contact who has infiltrated the cloakroom staff—for these days it would be best for you to arrive at the museum with one of those folders that artists use, do you know the ones I mean?”

I remembered the portfolio that Félix used for his painting classes in Bertuchi’s school.

“Yes, I won’t have any trouble getting hold of one of those.”

“Perfect. Take that with you, and inside it you should have basic drawing equipment—a notebook, some pencils—in short, the usual sort of thing, which you can get your hands on anywhere. You should also add whatever you have to get to me, this time in a large open envelope. For identification you should attach a cutting of fabric in some bright color to it, fixed with a pin. You’ll go to the museum every Saturday around ten in the morning; it’s a very common activity among the foreigners living in the capital. Arrive with your portfolio filled with things that mark you out as a dressmaker, in case you’re being watched at all: older drawings, sketches of outfits—again, things related to your usual work.”

“Very well. What do I do with the portfolio when I arrive?”

“You hand it over at the cloakroom. You ought always to leave it with some other item—an overcoat, a raincoat, some small purchase, so it isn’t too conspicuous on its own. Then head for one of the rooms and wander around at a leisurely pace, enjoy the paintings. After half an hour, return to the cloakroom and ask them to give the portfolio back to you. Then take it to one of the rooms and sit and draw for at least another half hour. Look at the clothes that appear in the paintings, pretend that they’re inspiring you for your future creations; behave, in short, in whatever way you think most convincing, but first check that the envelope has been removed from inside. If it hasn’t, you’ll need to return on the Sunday and repeat the operation, though I don’t think that should be necessary: using the hairdresser’s salon as cover is new, but we’ve used the Prado before and it’s always been satisfactory.”

“And I won’t know who’s picking up the patterns there either?”

“Again, someone trustworthy. Our contact in the cloakroom will take charge of passing the envelope from your portfolio to another belonging left there by another contact the same morning—that’s something they can do very easily. Are you hungry?”

I looked at the time. It was past one. I didn’t know whether I was hungry or not: I’d been so busy absorbing each syllable that I’d barely noticed the time passing. I looked out to sea again; it seemed to be a different color now. Everything else was just the same: the light on the white walls, the gulls, the voices in Arabic from the street. Hillgarth didn’t wait for my reply.

“I’m sure you must be. Please, come with me.”

We ate alone in a wing of the American embassy that we reached by going down still more corridors and staircases. On the way Hillgarth explained to me that the building was the result of a number of extensions to an old main house; that explained why it lacked uniformity. The room we arrived in wasn’t exactly a dining room; it was more like a little drawing room with few furnishings and lots of paintings of old battles in golden frames. The windows, firmly closed despite the beautiful day, looked out over a courtyard. In the middle of the room someone had set out a platter of veal for two. A waiter with a military crew cut served us some rare-cooked meat accompanied by roast potatoes and salad. On a side table he left two plates of cut-up fruit and a coffee service. As soon as he’d finished filling our glasses with wine and water, he disappeared, closing the door behind him without a sound. The conversation resumed its former course.

“When you arrive in Madrid you’ll be staying at the Palace for a week; we’ve made a reservation in your name—I mean, in your new name. Once you’re there, you’re to go in and out all the time, get yourself seen. Go to shops, walk over to your new residence to familiarize yourself with it. Go for walks, go to the cinema; in short, move about as you like. With just two restrictions.”

“Which are?”

“The first is that you stay within the bounds of the smarter parts of Madrid. Don’t make any contact with people from outside that world.”

“You’re telling me not to set foot in my old neighborhood or see my old friends or acquaintances, right?”

“Precisely. No one should be able to link you to your past. You’re a new arrival in the capital: you don’t know anybody, and no one knows you. In the event that you run into anyone who happens to recognize you, do whatever you can to deny it. Be rude if you have to, do anything you need to, just don’t let anyone discover that you aren’t who you claim to be.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, don’t worry. And the second restriction?”

“Absolutely no contact with anyone of British nationality.”

“You mean I can’t see Rosalinda Fox?” I said, unable to hide my disappointment. Even though I knew our relationship couldn’t be public, I’d been counting on being able to have her support in private; being able to rely on her experience and her instincts whenever I found myself in trouble.

Hillgarth wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of water before replying.

“I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be. I’m sorry. Not her, nor anyone else who’s English, except for me and then only in absolutely unavoidable situations. Mrs. Fox knows all about this: if by any chance you find yourselves in the same place, she knows she’s not to approach you. And as much as possible avoid contact with North Americans as well. They’re our friends—you can see how well they treat us,” he said, opening his hands as though taking in the whole room with them. “Regrettably they are not equally good friends of Spain and the Axis countries, so try to keep your distance from them, too.”

“Very well,” I agreed. I didn’t like the restriction that prevented me from seeing Rosalinda, but I knew I had no choice but to observe the rule.

“And talking about public places, there are a few where I’d advise you to allow yourself to be seen,” he continued.

“Go on.”

“Your hotel, the Palace. It’s full of Germans, so keep going there regularly with any excuse even when you’re no longer staying there. Eating at the grill there, that’s very fashionable right now. Go for a drink, or to meet up with a client. Of course, in the New Spain it doesn’t look good for women to go out on their own, smoke or drink or dress showily. But remember that you’re not a Spaniard anymore, but a foreigner from a country that’s a bit exotic, newly arrived in the capital, so you can behave accordingly. Go by the Ritz often, too, that’s another nest of Nazis. And especially to Embassy, the tearoom on the Paseo de la Castellana—do you know it?”